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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
UNIVERSITY OF 
NORTH CAROLINA 


ENDOWED BY THE 
DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


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JNIVERSITY OF N. C. ATCI CHAP PELHILL 


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This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
the last date stamped under ‘‘Date Due.” If not on hold it 
may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 


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THE TRANSFORMATION 


BY 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 


NEW YORK . 
-LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY | 


MEMOIR 


OF 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 


 Geytus and knowledge command respect; but superior 
C genius and aes Pamlecee, Sues ee with argc moral. = 23 


e _ reputation of an ane in whom ai eds ‘are united. 
may be circumscribed during life, but_its rise and extension e 
; Oi slas death “prove that his claims to distinction are well 
founded. It is no less the duty than the pleasure of friend- 
ship to fortify and sustain these claims. The impartiality. of 


ans 
8 — cannot but confirm the anticipations of affection. | ut 


pF same eal on the banks of the Deleware. Tei petupalee oe 
af moral, religious, and political—coincided with those of their - . 


% 


pious and ‘illustrious leader. | 
He derived the additional name of Brockden from his uncle 
a Charles Brockden, so respectfully mentioned by Franklin in” 
= his, Life, a uy avoid the vengeance of ones whose . 


av. aes a Oe ee I re Cae! ke re ni ORE gs Ue nS i Ue Ae ge a re ne Ma > 
BF REI (aie Se a NENT ty TTI S NOR aaa, eee Rede nS idea den Cue iat Vcees Ranney war Paes 
Coad? Scan . Pete: OO MN. uae sare me a Breaahea Diggs soe 


4 MEMOIR OF . 


abilities finally raised him to an important office, which he 
- filled with distinguished reputation. 

His parents were pious and respectable members of the 
Society of Friends, and may be presumed to have instilled 
into their beloved offspring all that simplicity of manners and 
benevolence of sentiment which so honorably characterize 
the religious society to which they belonged. 

He was born in the city of Philadelphia, on the 17th day of 
January, 1771. He had three brothers older than himself, to 
whom, as well as to every other member of his family, he was 
from his earliest years an object of deep interest and fond 
affection. 

Of those incidents and circumstances which in childhood 
either control the development or indicate the character of 
the moral and intellectual powers of men distinguished for 
their talents, and which are not only interesting in themselves, 
but valuable as contributions to the great cause of education, 
it is always desirable to hear; but, when he whose life 
they would illustrate modestly leaves them unnoticed, the 
biographer can only have recourse to conjecture or to the 
recollections of friends. From the facts which they furnish he 
may deduce or infer, but he cannot establish with certainty. 
His narrative of these may therefore be brief without subject- 
ing him to censure. 

Of the first ten years of Mr. Brown’s life the memorials are 
few but sufficient. His constitution was unusually delicate 
and frail and his frame slender. Life opened upon him with 

a wan and sickly aspect, and disclosed but doubtful prospects 
ofa healthy manhood. The weakness of his body was, how- 
ever, his only weakness; his mind was not enervated. There . 
all was activity and strength. 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 5 


Debility of body does not necessarily lead to vigor of mind, 
The reverse of this may perhaps be maintained. But he whom 
nature had rendered incapable of much corporeal exertion 
would almost necessarily be thrown upon his intellectual re- 
sources for enjoyment. 

This was the case withthe lamented subject of this memoir. — 
From his earliest years he was devoted to books and reflec- 
tion. Maps, books, and prints were to him even in childhood 
objects irresistibly attractive. The study and examination of 
these were the constant and invariable occupations of his 

juvenile years. His knowledge of geography and architecture 
‘in his tenth year was a subject of pride and exultation to his 
friends and of surprise to strangers. 

He entered the classical school of Robert Proud, the well- 


b 


known author of the “History of Pennsylvania,’ in his 
eleventh year, and left it before he had completed his six- 
teenth. His rapid advancement and incessant diligence while 
under the direction of this gentleman received, as_ they 
merited, his warmest commendations. His studies were, 
however, by no means confined to the ancient classics ; his 
application was unremitting to the best English models. 
Five years of ardent and intellectual exercise 1n classical 
studies! What a mass of intellectual treasures may not be — 
collected during such a period! What rich materials for 
future use may it not afford! Fortunate is the youth of whom 
it may be said that, for five years, he persevered with ardor 


and enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge and the cultiva- 


tion of his powers. His soul becomes imbued with the love 


of letters and of science, and he is already on the high-road 
to distinction and honor. He can hardly become the slave 


of low and egrovelling vices. 


ae : MEMOIR Or es a 


Mr. Brown’s application during this period was indeed so 
intense as seriously to endanger his health ; and, therefore, 
by the advice of his preceptor, he occasionally relaxed from | 
the severities of study and made excursions into the country. 
These journeys he performed on foot; and, on account of 
the pleasure and advantage which he derived from jhe he 
ever after continued the practice. : 

Accustomed as he had been to the confined atmosphere, the 
dusky streets, and unwholesome exhalations of a city, the ex- 
tended prospects, the varied hues, the delicious fragrance, 
and the balmy and elastic air of the country were unspeak- 
ably grateful aud refreshing. Solitary wandering leads to 
thoughtful musing, and this to romanticenthusiasm. It would 
not be difficult to predict the effects which such a practice 
would have upon an imagination ever active, enriched and 
embellished with elegant literature and various knowledge. 
Habits of reverie and abstraction would be insensibly con- 
tracted. “Present objects would gradually fade from the view, 
and the imagination revel, free and unfettered, amid its own 
creations. 

He had been diligent in composition before he was sixteen ; 
but after he left school he became indefatigable. He wrote a 
variety of essays, both in prose and verse, most of which 
imply considerable powers and uncommon acquisitions in a 
youth of his age. About this time, too, he invented a system. 
of short-hand, and successfully studied French, aided only by 
books. | 
_ But it became necessary that his efforts should be concen- 
trated upon a single science. <A profession must be adopted. 
‘The-fictions of the imagination and the enthusiasm of senti- 

2 ; ment must give place to the sober realities of business. With 


> 


eae 


~~-  . QOHARLES BROORDEN BROWN. q 


the approbation of his family, he made choice of the law, and 
became a student in the office of Alexander Wilcox, Hsq., a 
distinguished member of the Philadelphia bar. 

His habits of labor and application, no less than his keen 
discrimination and sound judgment, were admirably fitted for 
his new pursuit, and he entered upon it with his usual ardor 
and diligence. He became a member of a law society, over 
whose deliberations he presided with credit and ability. The 
recorded decisions which his duty as president required him 


to make evince unusual research and solidity of judgment. 


But polite literature and liberal studies could not be relin- 


quished. Law he studied from a principle of duty or neces- 


sity ; but literature had his secret soul» Though the dry ab- 


stractions and bewildering subtleties of law had something in 


them which particularly suited his laborious habits and 


speculative ingenuity, his literary propensities were irresisti- 
ble. He became, at the same time, a member of the Belles- 
Lettres Club, whose principal object was improvement in 
literature. In this also he became a leader. The various ad- 
dresses which he delivered before this society are creditable to 
his talents and indicative of vigor and originality of thought. 


During the whole of his novitiate his pen was in diligent 


exercise. He wrote various essays, some of them of consider- 
“able merit, and maintained a long and elaborate correspond- © 


- ence with several of his friends. Not satisfied with these 


labors, he kept a minute and copious journal, not merely of 
the incidents and occurrences of the day, but of his thoughts, 
feelings, and reflections. He did this for the double purpose 


of improvement: in thinking-and in writing. Of excellence in 


style he was always ambitious, and for it he most saeco 


- labored. 


8 MEMOIR OF Besant 


Of the progress that he made, or was qualified to make, in 
the science of law, the decisions before alluded to afford 
abundant and convincing evidence. His qualifications and 
attainments were unquestionably great for so young a man : 
and of moral purity and elevation of sentiment he was a rare 
and signal example. His early associates were selected solely 
with a view to moral and intellectual improvement; for to 
sensual enjoyments and vicious pleasures he was an utter 
stranger. Vice in every shape was loathsome and disgusting 
to him. | , 

He was now of that age when youth swells into manhood— 
when the dispositions, habits, and propensities of early life 
become fixed and pérmanent, or, swayed by novel and un- 
foreseen circumstances, assume new directions, or become 
supplanted by others still more powerful. The period came 
when the study was to be succeeded by the practice of the 
law. To this he was decidedly averse. His resolution was 
fixed, and the law was abandoned. Neither argument nor 
persuasion could vanquish his resolution. This was not the 
result of whim or caprice. His passion for letters, the weak- 
ness of his physical constitution, and his reluctance to engage 
in the noise and bustle of professional business, were doubiless 
causes abundantly adequate to the production of this effect. 
The last of these originated in that habit of romantic and 
visionary speculation in which he so much delighted to in- 
dulee, and of which he gave a striking instance in the essays 
which he published under the title of the ‘‘Rhapsodist.” 

In reference to this event he says himself, “As for me, I 
had long ago discovered that nature had not qualified me for 
an actor on this stage. The nature of my education only 


added to these disqualifications.”’ ‘The disappointment of 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. g 


his friends was great indeed at this abandonment of the 
only path to fame and fortune which seemed to be open to 
him. They reasoned, they remonstrated ; but their labor was 
“in vain. His reluctance was invincible. Not even his own 
sense of duty could overcome it. His friends saw this, and 
were silent. To one so strongly attached to his family and 
friends, of whom he was the pride and the boast, this trial 
must have been peculiarly severe. The effect was soon per- 
ceived ; his spirits sank almost to hopelessness, and his health 
became visibly impaired. 

The portion of his life from the close of his legal studies 
till the time of his becoming professedly an author, in the 
year 1798, comprises a period of about six years. Of this 
part of his history the incidents are few and may be briefly 
told. His literary and scientific tastes were now his only re- 
source, and they were indulged without restraint. 

To dissipate the gloom and dejection into which his mind 
had sunk, he left Philadelphia, and, after traversing various 
parts of the country, he remained for a while in the city of 
New York. There the joys and consolations of friendship 
awaited him; for his friend, Dr. Elihu H. Smith, was a resi- 
dent of that city. By him Mr. Brown was received with all 
the cordiality which the most disinterested friendship could 
inspire. Their intercourse had commenced in Philadelphia, 
while respectively engaged in professional studies. Tis visit 
was not only productive of pleasure, but of friendship, to 
Mr. B. Through the kindness of his beloved friend Smith 
the circle of his friends was considerably enlarged, and hope 
was revived in his breast. He left New York gratified and 
strenothened. ) 


The impressions he received during this visit induced a 


1025 te aOR OR 
speedy repetition of it. The second was longer than the 
first, and from this time the greater part of the period before 
mentioned was spent by him in New York. His situation 
there was happily adapted to gratify his best feelings and 
promote his favorite pursuits. Of his new friends and asso- 
ciates, many were distinguished, and all respectable, for 


literature or science. With most of these gentlemen he was 


+ on terms of the strictest intimacy and most liberal intercourse. 


Many of them were members of a literary society, about that 
time formed in New York, under the modest title of the 
“Friendly Club.” Of this society Mr. B. became a member, 
and frequently mentions, in his journal, the pleasure and 
advantages: he derived from it. 

‘By his friend Smith he was introduced to the friendship 
of Mr. Johnson and Mr. Dunlap, the latter of whom has 
since celebrated the talents and virtues of his friend in an 
extended biography. Between these gentlemen, Dr. Smith, 
and himself, an intimacy of the most endearing and confi- 
dential nature subsisted for several years, and was terminated 
only by death. He was an inmate in the family of Mr. Dun- 
lap during the greater part of this time; but he afterwards 
resided with his friends Johnson and Smith. Mr. Brown 
was of that temperament that required objects for the exer- 
cise of the domestic affections. Mere literary or social inter- 
course was not sufficient for him. In the family establish- 
- ments just mentioned, he found ample exercise for the sensi- 
bilities of his affectionate heart. | : 

Thus cireumstanced, his intellectual powers were ‘strongly 
excited and his moral propensities confirmed and strength- 
ened, That he made large additions to his knowledge may 
fairly be inferred from his known habits of labor and apph- 


Ht " Vesey alka a rr be een Tee 
io ea Sd, Se I oa ; & 


: a OUARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. rai ed 


 eation. -His reading was various and extensive, but not 
; always profitable. He had at this period of his life a strong 

:, tendency to skepticism, which, in his riper years, he rejected. 
This was natural, and the explanation is easy. Imperfection 
-iswritten upon every thing human. It requires little sagac- 
ity to perceive defects in existing institutions, or to suggest 
difficulties and to frame objections to any system of morals 
or religion. To a young, acute, and original inquirer these 
are soon apparent.. To him, if zealous and sincere in his 
search after truth, nothing is more vehemently desired than 
certainty. He strains after perfection, and, finding the 
system which accident, design, or necessity, first presents 
to his examination not to yield the satisfaction he seeks, he 
rejects it for another. ‘This is liable to objections as well as 
the former, less potent, perhaps, but still objections. An- 
other and another succeeds; but doubts and difficulties are 
_ gtill unresolved, and the inquirer, wearied. at last with the 
fruitless search, sinks into the indifference of skepticism, 

from which a more enlarged experience and deeper inquiries 
alone can raise him. 

_ During this period of his life, the moral and _ political 
world were in a state of the most violent excitation. The 
deep foundations of society were shaken. The spirit of fear- 
less inquiry was abroad upon the earth. Theories the most 
extravagant were daily promulgated, and the madness of 

speculation knew no bounds. 7 , 
Toward the close of these times of such fearful excite- 

ment he commenced his career as an author, and his first 

ee publication was “Alcuin: a Dialogue on the Rights of 

Be “Women.” This was written during the autumn and winter 


~ of the year T7194; : It isan eloquent and ingenious specula- 


P 


12: : MEMOIR OF 


tion, of which, though we may praise the elegance of the 
language, the originality of the style, and the subtlety of 
the argument, we cannot but condemn the unsoundness of 
the doctrine. Though published, it was scarcely known to 
the public, and the author consequently acquired from it’ 
neither reputation nor profit. 

About the same period he wrote a small novel, in the form 
of aseries of letters, which he never published, and which, 
though not destitute of merit, it would be unnecessary to 
notice here, did not the composition of it seem to have been 
the circumstance which led to his subsequent efforts in the 
same walk. On this work he remarks in his journal, “I 
commenced something in the form of aromance. I had at 
first no definite conceptions of my design. As my pen pro- 
ceeded forward, my invention was tasked, and the materials 
that it afforded were arranged and digested.” ‘“ Every new 
attempt will be better than the last, and, considered in the 
light of a prelude or first link, it may merit that praise to 
which it may possess no claim, considered as a last, best 
creation.” 

It was indeed a prelude to a series, which he now in rapid 
succession produced, of the most original, powerful, and 
masterly, though faulty and in some respects imperfect and 
objectionable, works of fiction of which American literature 
could then, or perhaps can now, boast; and which will ad- 
vantageously sustain a comparison with European works of 
the same species of composition, in most of the qualities 
essential to such productions. 

Mr. Brown wrote six works of this description, wpon which 
his fame has hitherto chiefly rested :—‘“ Wieland,” “ Ormond,” 
‘Arthur Mervyn,” “Edgar Huntly,” “Clara Howard,” and 


-_ ss OHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. — 13 
«Jane Talbot.” The first five were published in the interval 
that elapsed from the spring of 1798 till the summer of 1801, 
a period of little more than three years, and in which he 
completed his thirtieth year. The last was published some- 
what later. | 

Upon the character of these fictions little more can be 
said upon this occasion. They have now in their favor the 
voice of British criticism, tardy as it has ever been to pro- 
claim the merits of American genius; and that excellence 
must indeed be positive on this side of the Atlantic which 
ean win or extort applause from the judges on the other. 

They are indeed remarkable productions. Once read the im- 
pression they make is never forgotten. They are original in 
every sense—in the conception, the style, the execution; in 
the characters, sentiments, manners, incidents, altogether 
original. Full of energy and pathos, they abound with pas- 
sages of genuine eloquence and irresistible force. Few works 
excite such breathless anxiety and awful apprehension. The 
tone of seriousness and solemnity that pervades them repels 
the ordinary reader of novels. One fond of mere love-tales 
- must not look into them for enjoyment. They are calculated 
only for those who indulge in the deep and powerful emo- 
tions; for those who think and feel stronely ; who delight 
patiently to trace every action to its appropriate motive ; and 
to mark the ebbs and flows of passion, and follow them out to 
their furthest consequences. To such readers they will 
always be welcome, notwithstanding the admission that the 
characters and incidents are too frequently in extremes and lie 
barely within the range-of probability. Few writers of ficti- 
tious narrative can be pronounced equal to Mr. Brown in the 


analysis of the thoughts and emotions of the soul, in exqui- 


& 


in. 10 are bite gala oie gait Ye a eee 


eis in peteig SUG aaeat 


Se 
Hs 


- -MRMOIR OR 


site skill in the arrangement and development of incidents, 
and in accuracy, extent, and variety of knowledge. 

‘During this period he not only wrote a variety of essays 
and fugitive pieces in prose and verse, some of which were 
published in the journals of the day, but he at the same time 
conducted, with great credit and ability, a periodical work, in 
the city of New York, under the title of the “Monthly Maga-— 
vine and American Review.” This work, begun in April, 
1799, and closed in the autumn of the year 1800, was almost 
entirely the production of his own pen; though he received 
some valuable contributions from his literary and scientifie 
friends, particularly in the critical department. It abounds 
with curious and learned essays, ingenious speculations, inter- 
esting tales, and valuable information, and affords some of 
the best specimens of liberal, candid, and manly criticism that 
the American press has hitherto produced. 

In closing this short summary of his first literary labors, it 
is but justice to his memory to claim for him the honor of 
having been among the first—perhaps of having been the 
first—of those American writers who set an example of liter- 
ary independence by drawing upon their own resources, thus 
stimulating the national mind to exertion in the fields of lit- | 
erature and science. He was, it is believed, the first native 
American author who devoted himself to literary pursuits as a — 
regular occupation, and who depended upon them for a per- 
manent support. 

Mr. Brown continued to reside in the city of New York 
and its neighborhood from the spring of 1798 till the autumn 
of the year 1800, at the conclusion of which he removed to his 

native city, Philadelphia. : 

_ Riper years and more extensive communion with his fellow- ~ 


ee eee Le tt) 2 =~ 
bet aE? By ans ane 
Sogn Ok ee begs 78 : 


CHARLES BROOKRDEN BROWN. ———‘15 


men during his residence in New York corrected, without 
weakening, his moral enthusiasm and romantic sensibilities, 
The realities of experience were gradually and imperceptibly 
substituted for the visions of a glowing and luxurious imagi- 
nation, and his moral progress was eminently beneficial and 
salutary. Friendship in him was so powerful and elevated a 
sentiment that not even the dangers of pestilence could deter 
him from the performance of those duties which it seemed to 
him to prescribe. 

Though he made occasional excursions in the warm sea- 
sons, sometimes for health and sometimes for pleasure and 
relaxation, yet his favorite studies and pursuits were zealously 
continued, and he added largely to the ample stock of litera- 
ture and science which he had previously acquired. His cor- 
respondence was prosecuted with his wonted activity, and his | 
journals were, as usual, detailed and copious. His pen, in- 
deed, was incessantly employed ; and, for the three years guc- 
ceeding his return to his paternal abode, he not only wrote a 
variety of lighter essays, in prose and verse, but planned and 
made considerable collections for future works of more dura- 

_ ble utility and elevated aim than any he had yet produced, 
- and from which, when completed, he might expect both profit 
and reputation. 

The year 1803 was an important era in his life, as from this 
is to be dated the commencement of his career as a political 
writer ; and we can only reeret that he did not write more on 
subjects of such vast practical importance, upon which he has 
shown himself so admirably qualified to write well. Three of 
the speculations which he published at different periods upon 

a “political subjects are especially worthy of notice and consider- 
" “ation :—that on the ‘‘Cession of Louisiana to France,” that 


16 | MEMOIR OF 


on the “Treaty with England rejected by Mr. Jefferson,” and 
that on ‘“* Commercial Restrictions.” 

The candid and impartial reader will bestow upon these 
productions no mean praise. They are evidently the work of 
a clear, sagacious, original, and comprehensive thinker ; the 
soundness and accuracy of whose views and opinions are 
strongly implied in the manliness, candor, and perspicuity 
with which those of the adverse parties are stated and exam- 
ined. To the praise of variety and depth of knowledge, vigor 
of argument, and comprehensiveness of view, they are emi- 
nently entitled. They display a boldness and independence 
of thought, a freedom from prejudice and party bias, and an 
impartiality of decision, very unusual in writings of this de- 
scription among us. The characteristic originality of the 
author is seen in almost every page. On subjects so compli- 
cated and various as those discussed in these productions, 
different opinions may be entertained and different conclu- 
sions drawn by men of the greatest knowledge and brightest 
intellect, without subjecting them to the imputation of igno- 
yance or unfairness. Of the ability displayed in those essays, 
a careful perusal will afford decisive evidence. For the disinter- 
estedness and purity of the author’s motives, those who knew 
him best. can best answer. No American could be actuated 
by a more noble and elevated patriotism, or could perceive 
more clearly and paint more vividly the glorious destinies of 
his country. 3 

A second edition of the ‘‘Cession of Louisiana” was called 
for and speedily issued in February, 1803. The public at- 
tention was ingeniously and forcibly directed to the impor-— 
tance of the acquisition, and to the necessity that it should, at 
all hazards, be secured to these States. We may therefore 


~ 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. | 17 


justly claim for the author the honor of having, in some small 
degree, contributed to the subsequent annexation of that im- 
portant and extensive country to the American Union. 

There was nothing for which he had a deeper abhorrence 
than for party intemperance and strife. He freely and fairly 
allowed to others the freedom which he exercised himself, 
and he could prove an adversary to be in the wrong without 
the imputation of selfish or dishonorable motives. He there- 
fore, in his pamphlet on the British Treaty of 1806, fearlessly | 
but decorously declared his opinions of public men and their 
measures. He aimed sedulously and solely to establish truth. 
If he failed, his judgment, not his intentions, must be called 
in question. 

He was decidedly opposed to embargoes and restrictions. 
He therefore, in his pamphlet on ‘Commercial Restrictions,” 
endeavored, and we think successfully, to demonstrate their 
injustice and inutility. The course pursued since by some 
of the principal maritime states of Europe seems to confirm 
the justness of his conclusions, and the enlightened views of 
political economy still prevalent lead to the same result. A_ 
considerable portion of his countrymen maintain the same 
doctrines which he so forcibly and ably supported, and a still 
larger one, perhaps, reject them. Many may deride the 
impartiality which weighed the merits of France and Eng- 
land in the same scales. Some surely will applaud it. Time 
will add to the number of the latter, and every American 
bosom must swell with exultation at the grand picture of _ 
“the progress to greatness,” so eloquently sketched by the 
_ author as that which his country is destined to realize in no 
distant futurity. 

Bat political speculations did not detain him long. Litera- 


18 MEMOIR OF 


ture had long been his passion, and was now to be his sup- 
port. He made an advantageous engagement with an eminent 
bookseller of Philadelphia, who undertook the publication at 
his own risk ; and the first number of a new periodical work 
was issued on the Ist of October, 1803, under the title of 
The Literary Magazine and American Register. The follow- 
ing passage from the excellent address which accompanied 
the first number of this work exhibits at once Mr. Brown’s 
modesty, his candor, and his sensibility to fame : 

‘“‘T am far, however, from wishing that my readers should 
judge of my exertions by my former ones. I have written 
much, but take much blame to myself for something which I 
have written, and take no praise for any thing. I should 
enjoy a larger share of my own respect at the present moment 
if nothing had ever flowed from my pen the production of 
which could be traced to me. A variety of causes induce me 
to form such a wish; but Lam principally influenced by the 
consideration that time can scarcely fail of enlarging and 
refining the powers of a man, while the world is sure to judge 
of his capacities and principles at fifty from what he has 
written at fifteen.” The following illustrates an important 
change in his opinions:—‘‘In an age like this, when the 
foundations of religion and morality have been so boldly 
attacked, it seems necessary, In announcing a work of this 
nature, to be particularly explicit as to the path which the 
editor means to pursue. He therefore avows himself to be, 
without equivocation or reserve, the ardent friend and the 
willing champion of the Christian religion. Christian piety 
he reveres as the highest excellence of human beings, and 
the amplest reward he can seek for his labor is the con- 
sciousness of having in some degree, however inconsider- 


t Ate ates OA oi Sie Ee Gs SPN TRAY emt", rots we ADT ea Sapte we phone ME ty see MN pO eee a a8 
at bh i ays tak RUE ioraate sce fins TN eal eSB Me a ag oe eae 4 
ON i So a er del Sea an ms 

ae - ~ T= ln 


ad , : : ae er Swe 3 
Ay * “ ee he . a“ 
re! “ ¥ & <p o- 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 19 


able, contributed to recommend the practice of religious 
duties.” 
This work was continued with unremitting care and 


assiduity for five years; ard, though his reputation for 


knowledge and learning was extended by it, he could derive 


from it little fame as an author. It is larger and contains 
a ereater variety of information than the one which he had 
previously conducted; and its general characteristics are 
seriousness and solidity. It has little gayety, that essential 
ingredient in a monthly publication designed for miscellane- 
ousreading. Of wit and humor it cannot boast, for to neither 


of these had the editor any pretensions. There are so many 


articles on subjects of science dispersed through this work 
that it might with propriety be denominated a scientific ag 
well as a literary journal. ‘The editor, as in his former enter- 
prise, was compelled to draw copiously from his own store, 


and he not unfrequently wrote the whole of the original 


matter of a number ‘himself. When the variety of articles 


embraced in a number of this miscellany is considered, we 
cannot but acknowledge the versatility of his powers and 
the abundance of his resources who could so readily and. 
promptly produce essays on topics so diversified. This work 
is an honorable evidence of the taste, knowledge, talents, 
and attainments of its indefatigable editor. 

Single, enjoying the pleasures of friendship and social. 
intercourse, full of literary occupation, with brightening 


prospects and a rising reputation, honorably supported by Ze 


_the labors of his pen, and free from all cares but those 


incident to the life of a literary man, he seemed to have 


reached a situation in all respects gratifying and satisfactory 


_to the votary of letters. He was not insensible to the 


20 - MEMOIR OF 


advantages of this condition; and a year passed away in 
abundant occupation and eager anticipations of future felicity 
from that state into which, at the close of this year, he was 
for the first time to enter. 

In November, 1804, he was married to Miss Elizabeth 
Linn, of New York. This lady was the daughter of the 
Rev. Dr, Linn, of that city, a clergyman of the Presbyterian 
Church, of great respectability and superior eloquence. 

After his marriage he became a permanent resident in his 
native city. Of his domestic condition and prospects he 
must be his own historian. He says, in a letter to a friend, 
“As to myself, my friend, you judge rightly when you think 
me situated happily. My present way of life is in every 
respect to my mind. There is nothing to disturb my felicity 
but the sense of the uncertainty and instability that cling 
to every human being. . . . My business, if I may go call 
it, is altogether pleasurable, and, such as it is, it occupies not 
one-fourth of my time. . . . I have nothing to wish but 
that my present situation may last.” This was written in 
1805, In the summer of the following year, he writes thus 
of his home to another friend :—“ You will find it the abode 
of content, and may enjoy the spectacle, not very common, 
of a happy family.” 

Thus happily situated, notwithstanding the delicacy of his 
health, his literary labors were prosecuted with his accus- 
tomed zeal and perseverance ; and, in the year succeeding his 
marriage, he commemorated the virtues and abilities of his 


departed friend, Dr. J. B. Linn, the brother of his wife, in — 


one of the most elegant and interesting biographical sketches 
with which we are acquainted. It is, indeed, in our appre- 
-hension, a model of its kind. The facts, though few, are 


™~ 


pee, Fe Gan yet MeeN UDP N on’? eeST yA OE Ser, fe RSE Te LA UAE mes 
CHARLES BROOKDEN BROWN. 21 


judiciously arranged, and the character is gradually and dis- 
tinctly developed with singular correctness and felicity. His 
‘taste and skill in this department of composition, as well as 
in others, were frequently exercised in the columns of the 
Portfolio to which, from its commencement, he was a large 
contributor. 

Unwearied in his efforts-to promote knowledge, he com- 
menced in the year 1806 a new annual publication devoted 
to history, politics, and science, under the title of the 
American Register. This work, the only one of the kind 
yet attempted, we believe, in this country, was successfully 
and vigorously continued by him until the close of the year 
1809. 

When it is considered that the Magazine and Register were 
both conducted by him at the same time for a considerable 
period after the commencement of the latter, an opinion 
favorable to his zeal and application will readily be admitted. 
But he deserves other and higher praise. | 

In the American Register the powers of this admirable 
writer are displayed in a new and more imposing manner. 
This work exhibits him to his countrymen as a historian. 
Though his own modesty named that merely annals which 
impartial criticism will scarcely hesitate to call history, we 
cannot but declare the conviction that his narrative of Euro- 
pean and American affairs from the year 1806 to the year 
1809 is not surpassed, if equalled, by any contemporary 
sketch of the same period that has hitherto been presented 
to the public. It proves the author to have possessed the | 
essential qualities of an able historian—sound, comprehen- 
sive judgment; keen, discriminating sagacity, independence 


and yigor of mind, rigid impartiality, command of language, 


and ample knowledge. Its tendencies are in the highest de- 


gree favorable to the cause of national virtue and enlightened 
freedom.* 

Of the other portions of this work, though valuable and the 
result of great labor, it is unnecessary to speak. This and the 
pamphlet before mentioned on “Commercial Restrictions” 
were the last of his publications. 

Thus, from 1804 till the summer of 1809, was he almost in- 
cessantly employed. He had in this interval nearly completed 


an extensive system of “General Geography,” + and made 


considerable progress in a work on ‘‘Rome During the Age’ 


of the Antonines,” similar to ‘‘ Anacharsis’ Travels in Greece,” 
when disease invaded his frame so seriously that he was com- 
pelled to desist from his labors, and go in search of that health 
which it was now almost hopeless to find. 

In the summer of 1809, he left home for this purpose, and 
passed a short time with some friends in New Jersey and New 
York. He says, in a letter written upon this occasion, ‘‘ When 


*The historical part of the American Register, written by Mr. 
Brown, would make an octavo of about four hundred pages, and the 
republication of it might be useful. 

} This able work was entirely completed at his decease, except the 
part relating to the United States. The full original manuscript is now in 
the possession of William Linn Brown, Esq., of this city, simce perfected 
in the part relating to the United States, and at some early day will be 
presented to the public. A gentleman who was a native of Britain, and 
perfectly acquainted with the subject,and who had read the manuscript 
of the account of London contained in this work, declared it to be, be- 
yond comparison, the best history of that city which he had ever seen. 

NorEe.—Mr. Brown left four children. The youngest son, Eugene 
Linn Brown, died of consumption. on April 1, 1824, in the sev- 
enteenth year of his age. Ofthis boy much could be told. In love of 
knowledge, in capacity for acquiring it, and in every endearing virtue 
of the heart, he resembled his father. He is now mingled with kindred 
spirits. 


RAS Al eR, SI Paks he Cie oe eh ea iw tled HT Baksh. Meat Op a eee 
6 oe eo es SE Ma ES ot eee Cte ae By Ao 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 23. 


have I known that lightness and vivacity of mind which the 
divine flow of health, even in calamity, produces in some 
men? Never!—scarcely ever! Not longer than half an 
hour at a time since I have called myself man.” It is hardly 
necessary to say that he returned without benefit to the home 
he had left with great reluctance. 

He was naturally inclined to consumption, and his applica- 
tion only confirmed the predisposition. His friends were 
alarmed and urged the necessity of a sea-voyage for the bene- 
fit of his health ; but home was too dear to him to be left for 
so long a time as this would require. The disease now began 
to assume a more threatening aspect, and his friends again 
became importunate for him to try a voyage to Europe. He 
at last consented, and the spring of 1810 was fixed upon as 
the period of his departure for England. 

The disease, however, did not abate. On November 10, 
1809, he was attacked with a violent pain in his side, for 
which he was bled. He was now confined to his chamber, 
and his situation became evidently more alarming. Day after ~ 
day passed away, but there was no symptom of amendment, 
‘The malady was making fearful progress, and the hearts of 
his friends sank within them at the bare conception of the 
catastrophe that was rapidly approaching. His sufferings 
were acute and severe, but his patience and fortitude were 
superior to calamity. He was aware of his danger from the 
beginning, and perfectly conscious of the fate that awaited | 
him. In his long confinement he was scarcely ever free from 
pain ; but the same gentleness and simplicity of manners, the 
same sweetness of conversation, which distinguished him in 
health shone conspicuously in sickness. He was the same 
ef gentle, forbearing, humble being he had ever been. 


ea - MEMOIR OF 


One who was bound to him by the strongest ties, and who 
will ever revere his memory, thus describes his deportment 
at this trying season :—‘“ He always felt for others more than 
for himself ; and the evidences of sorrow in those around him, 
which could not at all times be suppressed, appeared to af- 
fect him more than his own sufferings. Whenever he spoke 
of the probability of a fatal termination to his disease, it was 
in an indirect and covert manner ; as, ‘ You must do so-and-so 
when I am absent,’ or, ‘when Iam asleep.’ He surrendered 
not up one faculty of his soul but with his last breath. He 
saw Death in every step-of his approach, and received him as 
a messenger that brought with him no terrors. He frequently 
expressed his resignation; but his resignation was not pro- 
duced by apathy or pain, for, while he bowed with submis- 
sion to the divine will, he felt, with the keenest sensibility, 
his separation from those who made this world but too dear 
to him. Toward the last, he spoke of déath without disguise, 
and appeared to wish to prepare his friends for the event 
which he felt to be approaching. A few days previous to his 
change, while sitting up in bed, he fixed his eyes on the sky, 


and desired not to be spoken to until he should first speak. 


In this position, and with a serene countenance, he continued 


some minutes, and then said to his wife, ‘When I desired you 


not to speak to me, I had the most transporting and sublime 


feelines I ever experienced. I wanted to enjoy them, and to 


know how long they would last.’ He concluded with request- 
ing her to remember the circumstance.” 

His sufferines were protracted until February, 1810. On 
the morning of the 19th of that month, his anxious family 


saw with emotions not to be expressed that a fatal change had 


taken place. He thought himself dying, and, at his request, | 


wT A oe 


CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. OB. 


his family and friends were assembled round his bed. He 
addressed them successively with the utmost tenderness and 
affection. He lingered, however, for three days longer, con- 
-yersing ag usual with perfect composure and self-possession. 
On the 22d, the final summons came, and, with clear and 
unclouded faculties, he yielded up his soul to Him who 
eave it. 

Thus died, at the early age of thirty-nine, a martyr to let- 
ters, Cuartes Brocxpen Brown, who to eminence in knowl- 
edge and strength of genius added a moral purity and eleva- 
tion of sentiment above all praise ; whose character exhibited 
the rare union of intellectual superiority and unfeigned mod- 
esty, and whose whole life was radiant with virtue and good- 
ness. He was one of the most disinterested of men, and to 
the base and malignant passions he was an utter stranger. 
Distinguished for genius himself, he was the enthusiastic ad- 
mirer of it in others. He knew not how to envy. Intellect- 
ual exercise of every kind was perfectly familiar to him, and 
he could, with equal ease and without premeditation, enter 
into solid and elaborate argument or sport in all the luxuri- 
ance of fiction. Mild, retiring, and amiable, his manners had 
a simplicity and unobtrusiveness and his conversation a 
sweetness that cannot soon be forgotten by his friends. With 
ereat colloquial powers and inexhaustible stores of knowledge 
he would frequently listen and modestly receive from others 


what he was much better qualified to give. No one enjoyed 


- witha keener relish the delights of social intercourse ; but 


it was in the converse of the domestic circle that his gratifica- 


tion was complete. He enjoyed the singular felicity of num- 


bering among his best friends his relations by marriage as 


3 SS well as by birth, by whom his memory is cherished with the 


owes = him much, and our P eounteymen will oe 


Ms tt 


“and the homage of the nent 


"hie 
3.4 


ye By) te seek oa ies 2 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


7 


Tur following work is delivered to the world as the first ofa 
series of performances, which the favorable reception of this 
will induce the writer to publish. His purpose is neither 
selfish nor temporary, but ‘aims at the illustration of some 
important _ branches | of the “moral cor constitution of man. 
Whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary or friv- 
olous sources of amusement or be ranked with the few pro- 
ductions whose usefulness secures to them a lasting repu- 

tation, the reader must be permitted to decide. 

The incidents related are extraordinary and rare. Some 

of them, perhaps, approach as nearly to the nature of 
miracles as can be done by that which is not truly miracu- 
lous. It is hoped that intelligent readers will not disap- 
prove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but 
that the solution will be found to correspond with the known 
principles of human nature. The power which the principal 
person is said to possess can scarcely be denied to be real. 
It must be acknowledged to be extremely rare ; but no fact, 
equally uncommon, is supported by the same strength of 
historical evidence. : ae 
_ Some readers may think the conduct of the younger Wie- = 
land impossible. In support of this possibility the writer 
must appeal to physicians, and to men conversant with the 


latent springs and occasional perversions of the human mind. 


ae _ADVER TISEMENT. — 


It will not be objected that the instances of Seine delusion _ t 


are rare, because it is the business of moral painters. to. 6x-* 
hibit their subject in its most instructive and memorable. 
forms. If history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient 


* Vindication of the writer ; but most readers will probably 


recollect an authentic case, remarkably similar to that of — 


Wieland. 
~ Jt will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, 


in an epistolary form, by the lady whose story it contains; to 
a small number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to ; 
it, had been greatly awakened. It may likewise be men- 
tioned that these events took place between the conclusion 
of the French and the beginning of the Revolutionary War. — 
The memoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion of the — 


work, will be published or suppressed according to the re- 


-eeption which is given to the present attempt. 
. Oe Be 
September 3, 1798, nk 


a ee ae ee Coe tke 


ae 


eae 


a eye 


he 


WIHLAND 


CHAPTER I. 


I reet little reluctance in complying with your. request. 
You know not fully the cause of my sorrows. You area 
stranger to the depth of my distresses. Hence your efforts 
at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet the tale that I am 
going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. 
In the midst of my despair I do not disdain to contribute 
what little I can for the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge 
your right to be informed of the events that have lately hap- 
pened in my family. Make what use of the tale you shall 


think proper. If it be communicated to the world it will 


inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify the 


force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils 
that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline. 
My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment 


that dictates my feelings is not hope. Futurity has-no power 


over my thoughts. To all that is tocome I am perfectly in- 


different. With regard to myself, I have nothing more to 


fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am callous to 
misfortune. 3 

IT address no supplication to the Deity. The power that 
governs the course of human affairs has chosen his path. 


The deeree that ascertained the condition of my hfe adimits 


of no recall. No doubt it squares with the maxims of eter- 


nal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor denied by 
me. It suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. The 
storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreari- 


Hie WIELAND; OR, 


ness and desert the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled | 
into grim repose ; but not until the victim was transfixed and 
mangled ; till every obstacle was dissipated by its rage; till 
every remnant of good was wrested from our grasp and ex- 
terminated. | 

How will your wonder and that of your companions be 
excited by my story! Every sentiment will yield to your 
amazement. If my testimony were without corroborations 
you would reject it as incredible. The experience of no hu- 
man being can furnish a parallel : that I, beyond the rest of 
mankind, should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation 
and without example! Listen to my narrative, and then say 
what it is that has made me deserve to be placed on this 
dreadful eminence, if, indeed, every faculty be not suspended 
in wonder that I am still alive and am able to relate it. 

My father’s ancestry was noble on ‘the paternal side; but 
his mother was the daughter of a merchant. My grandfather 
was a younger brother, and a native of Saxony. He was 
placed when he had reached the suitable age, at a German 
college. During the vacations he employed himself in tra- 
versing the neighboring territory. On one occasion it was his 
fortune to visit Hamburg. He formed an acquaintance with 
Leonard Weise, a merchant of that city, and was a frequent 
guest at his house. The merchant had an only daughter, for 
whom his guest speedily contracted an affection ; and, in spite 
of parental menaces and prohibitions, he, in due season, be- 
came her husband. 

By this act he mortally offended his relations. Thencefor- 
ward he was entirely disowned and rejected by them. They 
refused to contribute anything to his support. All inter- 
course ceased, and he received from them merely that treat- 
ment to which an absolute stranger or detested enemy 
would be entitled. 

He found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose 
temper was kind, and whose pride was flattered by this alli- 
ance. The nobility of his birth was put in the balance 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 31 


against his poverty. Weise conceived himself, on the whole, 
to have acted with the highest discretion in thus disposing of 
his child. My grandfather found it incumbent on him to 
search out some mode of independent subsistence. His 
youth had been eagerly devoted to literature and music. 
These had hitherto been cultivated merely as a source of 
amusement. They were now converted into the means of 
gain. At this period there were few works of taste in the 
Saxon dialect, My ancestor may be considered as the found- 
er of the German Theatre. The modern poet of the same 
name is sprung from the same family, and, perhaps, surpasses 
but little, in the fruitfulness of lis invention, or the sound- 
ness of his taste, the elder Wieland. His life was spent in 
the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. They were 
not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. 
He died in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to 
the grave by his wife. Their only child was taken under 
the protection of the merchant. At an early age he was ap- 
prenticed to a London trader, and passed seven years of 
“mercantile servitude. 

My father was not fortunate in the character of him under 
whose care he was now placed. He was treated with rigor, 
and full employment was provided for every hour of his time. 
‘His duties were laborious and mechanical. He had been edu- 
cated with a view to this profession, and, therefore, was not 
tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold his 
present occupation in abhorrence because they withheld him 
from paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in 
unintermitted labor and in the sternness of his master suf- 
ficient occasions for discontent. No opportunities for recre- 
ation were allowed him. He spent all his time pent up in a 
_ gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and crowded streets. 

His food was coarse and his lodging humble. 
His heart gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy 
- feflection. He could not accurately define what was wanting 
_ tohis happiness. He was not tortured by comparisons drawn 
tat 


32, : WIELAND; OR, 


between his own situation and that of others. His state was 
such as suited his age and his views as to fortune. He did 
not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or unjustifiable 
rigor. In this respect he supposed the condition of others, 
bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his 
own; yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour 
tedious in its lapse. 

In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book 
written by one of the teachers of the Albigenses, or French 
Protestants. He entertained no relish for books, and was- 
wholly unconscious of any power they possessed to delight 
or instruct. The volume had lain for years mm a corner of 
his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. He had marked 
it as it lay ; had thrown it, as his océasions required, frona 
one spot to another ; but had felt no inclination to examine 
its contents, or even to inquire what was the subject of which 
it treated. 

One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few 
minutes to his garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this 
book, which, by some accident, had been opened and placed 
full in his view. He was seated on the edge of his bed, and 
was employed in repairing a rent in some part of his clothes. 
His eyes were not confined to his work, but, occasionally 
wandering, lighted at length upon the page. The words 
«Seek and ye shall find,” were those that first offered them- 
selves to his notice. His curiosity was roused by these so far 
asto prompt him to proceed. As soon as he finished his 
work, he took up the book and turned to the first page. The 
further he read, the more inducement he found to eontinue, 
and he regretted the decline of light which obliged him for 
the present to close it. 

The book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the 
sect of Camisards, and an historical account of its origin. 
His mind was in a state peculiarly fitted for the reception of 


devotional sentiments. The craving which had haunted him — 


was now supplied with an object. His mind was at no loss ~ 


“ 


Lae ae 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 33 


for a theme of meditation. On days of business, he rose at 
the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. 
He now supplied himself with candles, and employed his 
nocturnal and Sunday hours in studying this book. It, of 
course, abounded with allusions to the Bible. All its con- 
clusions were (leduced from the sacred text. This was the 
fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the 
stream of religious. truth; but it was his duty to trace it 
thus far. 

A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on 
the study of it. His understanding had received a particular 
direction. All his reveries were fashioned in the same mold. 
His progress toward the formation of his creed was rapid. 
Every fact and sentiment in this book was viewed through 
a medium which the writings of the Camisard apostle had 
sugeested. His constructions of the text were hasty, and 
formed on a narrow scale. Everything was viewed ina dis- 
connected position. One action and one precept were. not 
employed to illustrate and restrict the meaning of another. 
Hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had _ hitherto 
been a stranger. He was alternately agitated. by fear and 
by ecstasy. He imagined himself beset by the snares of a 
spiritual foe, and that his security lay in ceaseless watch- 
fulness and prayer. 

His morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled 
by a stricter standard. The empire of religious duty extend- 
ed itself to his looks, gestures, and phrases. All levities of 
speech, and’ negligences of behavior, were proscribed. His 
air was mournful and contemplative. He labored to keep 
alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of the awe-creating 
presence of the Deity. Ideas foreign to this were sedulously 
excluded. ‘To suffer their intrusion was a crime against the 
Divine Majesty, inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keen- 
est agonies, 

No material variation had occurred in the lapse of two 
years. Every day confirmed him in his present modes of 


pi Dra 1 ; 


34 | | WIELAND; OR, 


thinking and acting. It was to be expected that the tide of 
his emotions would sometimes recede, that intervals of des- 
pondency and doubt would occur ; but these gradually were 
more rare, and of shorter duration ; and he, at last, arrived 
ata state considerably uniform in this respect. 

His apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his arri- 
val at age he became entitled, by the will of my grandfather, 
toa small sum. This sum would hardly suffice to set him 
afloat as a trader in his present situation, and he had nothing 


to expect from the generosity of his master. Residence in — 


Eneland had, besides, become almost impossible on account 
of his religious tenets. In addition to these motives for seek- 
ing a new habitation, there was another of the most imperi- 
ous and irresistible necessity, He had imbibed an opinion 
that it was his duty to disseminate the truths of the gospel 
among the unbelieving nations. He was terrified at first by 
the perils and hardships to which the life ofa missionary is 
exposed. This cowardice made him diligent in the invention 
of objections and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly 
to shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his 
duty. The belief, after every new conflict with his passions, 
acquired new strength ; and, at length, he formed a resolu- 
tion of complying with what he deemed the will of heaven. 
The North American Indians naturally presented -them- 
selves as the first objects for this species of benevolence. As 
soon as his servitude expired, he converted his little fortune 
into money, and embarked for Philadelphia. Here his fears 


were revived, and a nearer survey of savage manners once - 


more shook his resolution, For a while he relinquished 
his purpose, and, purchasing a farm on the Schuykill, within 
a few miles of the city, set himself down to the cultivation of 
it. Thecheapness of land, and the service of African slaves, 
which were then in general use, gave him, who was poor in 
Europe, all the advantages of wealth. He passed fourteen 
years in a thrifty and laborious-manner. In this time new 
objects, new employments, and new associates appeared to 


Fs 
L 


ORS acca tie ea 
et Sees ey te 3 iy ao cet *y 


Ww Sameey Wenders Mme PRN TT bt A Nee 
‘ ys ‘ bi > ae f 


bas 


THB TRANSFORMATION. 35 
have nearly obliterated the devout impressions of his youth. 
He now became acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet 
disposition, and of slender acquirements like himself. He 
proffered his hand and was accepted. 

His previous industry had now enabled him to dispense 
with personal labor, and direct attention to his own concerns. 
He enjoyed leisure, and was visited afresh by devotional con- 
templation. The reading of the Seriptures, and other relig- 
ious books, became once more his favorite employment. His 
ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage tribes 
was revived with uncommon energy. To the former obstacles 
were now added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. 
The struggle was long and vehement; but his sense of duty 
would not be stifled or enfeebled, and finally triumphed over 
every impediment. 

His efforts were attended with no permanent success. His 
exhortations had sometimes a temporary power, but more 
frequently were repelled with insult and derision. In pur- 
suit of this object he encountered the most imminent perils, 
and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness, and 
solitude. The license of savage passion, and the artifices of 
his depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves to his prog- 
ress. His courage did not forsake him till there appeared 
no reasonable eround to hope for success. He desisted not 
till his heart was relieved from the supposed obligation to 
persevere. With his constitution somewhat decayed, he at 
‘length returned to his family. An interval of tranquillity 
succeeded. \ He was frugal, regular, and strict in the perform- 
ance of domestic duties. He allied. himself with no sect, be- 
cause he perfectly agreed with none. Social worship is that 
by which they are all distinguished ; but this artifice found no 
place in his creed. He rigidly interpreted that precept which 
enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut 
out every species of society. According to him, devotion was — 
not only a silent office, but must be performed alone. An 
hour at noon and an hour at midnight were thus appropriated. 


86 WIELAND; OR, 


At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on 
the top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and en- 
cumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built 
what to a common eye would have seemed a summer-house. 
The eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet above the 
river which flowed at its foot. The view before it consisted 
of a transparent current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky 
channel, and bounded by a rising scene of corn-fields and or- 
chards. The edifice was slight and airy. It was no more 
than a circular area, twelve feet in diameter, whose flooring 
was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and exactly lev- 
elled, edged by twelve Tuscan columns, and covered by an 
undulating dome. My father furnished the dimensions and 
outlines, but allowed the artist, whom he employed, to com- 
plete the structure on his own plan. It was without seat, 
table, or ornament of any kind. 

This was the temple of his Deity. Twice in twenty-four 
hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any human be- 
ing. Nothing but physical inability to move was allowed to 
obstruct or postpone this visit. He did not exact from his 
family compliance with his example. Few men, equally sin- 
cere in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and re- 
strictions, with respect to the conduct of others, as my 
father. ‘The character of my mother was no less devout ; but 
education had habituated her to a different mode of worship. 
The loneliness of her dwelling prevented her from joining 
any established congregation ; but she was punctual in the 
offices of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her 
Saviour, after the manner of the disciples of Zinzendorf. 
My father refused to interfere in her arrangements. His 
own system was embraced not, accurately speaking, because 
it was the best, but because it had been expressly prescribed 
to him. Other modes, if practiced by other persons, might. 
be equally acceptable. 

His deportment. to others was full of fee and mildness. 
A sadness perpetually overspread his features, but was un- 


THE TRANSFORMATION. | 37 
* mingled with sternness or discontent. The tones of his voice, 
his gestures, his steps, were all in tranquil uniform. His 
conduct was characterized by a certain forbearance and hu- 
mility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets 
were most obnoxious. They might call him a fanatic and a 
dreamer, but they could not deny their veneration to his in- 
vincible candor and invariable integrity. -His own belief of 
rectitude was the foundation of his happiness. This, how- 
ever, was destined to find an end. 

Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was 
deepened. Sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him. 
To the expostulations of his wife he seldom answered any- 
thing. When he designed. to be communicative he hinted 
that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation 
from his duty. A command had been laid upon him, which 

he had delayed to perform. He felt.as if a certain period of 
hesitation and reluctance had been allowed him, but that this 
period was passed. He was no longer permitted to obey. 
The duty assigned to him was transferred in consequence of 
his disobedience, to another, and all that remained was to en- 
dure the penalty. 
He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be noth- 
ing more for some time than a sense of wrong. This was 
sufficiently acute, and was ageravated by the belief that his 
offence was incapable of expiation. No one could contem- 
plate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the deep- 
est compassion. Time, instead of lightening the burden, 
appeared to add to it. At length he hinted to his wife that 
his end was near. His imagination did not prefigure the 
mode or the time of his decease, but was fraught with an in- 
curable persuasion that his death was at hand. He was like- 
svyise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that await- 


ed him was strange and terrible. His anticipations were thus _ 


far vague and indefinite ; but they sufficed to poison every 
- moment of his being and devote him to ceaseless anguish. 


bY —s 


ARES ot iT er 
saa ee 


a 4 yee: * ‘Blargts 
Ne ert 


CHAPTER II. 


Earty in the morning of a sultry day in August he left Met- 
“ingen to go to the city. He had seldom passed a day from 
home since his return from the shores of the Ohio. Some 
ardent engagements at this time existed, which would not ad- 
mit of further delay. He returned in the evening, but ap- 
peared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. His silence and 
dejection were likewise in more than ordinary deeree con-- 
Spicuous. My mother’s brother, whose profession was that 
of a surgeon, chanced to spend this night at our house. Tt 
was from him that I have frequently received an exact account 
of the mournful catastrophe that followed. 

As the evening advanced, my father’s inquietudes increased. 

He sat with his family as usual, but took no part in their con- 
versation. He appeared fully engrossed by his. own reflec- 
tions. Occasionally his. countenance exhibited tokens of 
alarm ; he gazed steadfastly and wildly at the ceiling ; and the 

| exertions of his companions were scarcely sufficient to inter- 
rupt his reverie. On recovering from these fits he expressed ~ 
no surprise, but, pressing his hand to his head, complained, 

in a tremulous and terrified tone, that his brain was scorched — _ 
to cinders. He would then betray marks of insupportable 
anxiety. $e 

My uncle perceived by his pulse that he was indisposed, — i 
but in no alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly ss 
to the workings of his mind. He exhorted him to recollee- 
tion and composure, but in vain. At the hour of repose he 


readily retired to his chamber. At the persuasion of my a 
* mother he was undressed and went to bed. Nothing could oi 
abate his restlessness.. He checked her tender expostulations : . 


with some sternness. ‘Be silent,” said he ; “for that which a 


sin ae aie By ea arava ts 
hae Rey feotisas re eaten Pe 8 
TRiahht Ae Mes ei Aspe 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. | 39 > 


I feel there is but one cure, and that will shortly come. You 
can help me nothing. Look to your own conditions, and pray 
to God to strengthen you under the calamities that await 
you.” “What am I to fear?” she answered. ‘‘ What terri- 
ble disaster is it that you think of ?” ‘Peace !—as yet I 
know it not myself, but come it will, and shortly.” She re- 
peated her inquiries and doubts ; but he suddenly put an end 
to the discourse by stern command to be silent. 

She had never before known him in this mood. Hitherto 
all was benign in his deportment. Her heart was pierced with 
sorrow at the contemplation of his change. She was utterly 
unable to account for it, or to figure to herself the species of 
disaster that was menaced. 

Contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed on 
the hearth, was left upon the table. Over it, against the wall, 
there hung a small clock, so contrived as to strike a very hard 
stroke at the end of every sixth hour. That which was now 
approachine was the signal for retiring to the fane at which 
he addressed his devotions. Long habit had occasioned him 
to be always awake at this hour and the toll was instantly 
obeyed. 

Now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the clock. 
Not a single movement of the index appeared to escape his 
notice. As the hour verged toward twelve, his anxiety visibly 
augmented. The trepidations of my mother kept pace with 
those of her husband ; but she was intimidated into silence. 
All that was left to her was to watch every change of his feat- 
ures and give vent to her sympathy in tears. 

At length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled. The 
sound appeared to communicate a shock to every part of my 
father’s frame. He rose immediately, and threw over himself 
a loose gown. Even this office was performed with difficulty, 
for his joints trembled and his teeth chattered with dismay. 
At this hour his duty called him to the rock, and my mother 
naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair, 
Yet these incidents were so uncommon as to fill her with as- 


PES key ee sone Pee ee 


* 


aN 


40 WIELAND; OR, 


tonishment and foreboding. She saw him leave the room, 
and heard his steps as they hastily descended the stairs. 
She half resolved to rise and pursue him, but the wildness 
of the scheme suggested itself. He was going to a place 
whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an at- 
tendant. 

The window of her chamber looked toward the rock. The 
atinosphere was clear and calm, but the edifice could not be 
discovered at that distance through the dusk. My mother’s 
anxiety would not allow her to remain where she was. She 
rose, and seated herself at the window. She-strained her 
sight to get a view of the dome, and of the path that led to it. 
The first painted itself with sufficient distinctness on her fancy, 
but was undistinguishable by the eye from the rocky mass on 
which it was erected. The second could be imperfectly seen ; 
but her husband had already passed, or had taken a differ- 
ent direction. | 

What was it she feared? Some disaster impended over her 
husband or herself. He had predicted evils, but professed 
himself ignorant of what nature they were. When were they | 
to come? Was this night, or this hour, to witness the ac- 
complishment ? She was tortured with impatience and un- 
certainty. All her fears were at present linked to his person 
and she gazed at the clock, with nearly as much eagerness as 
my father had done, in expectation of the next hour. 

A half hour passed away in this state of suspense. Her 
eyes were fixed upon the rock ; suddenly it was Uluminated. 
A light proceeding from the edifice made every part of the 
scene visible. A gleam diffused itself over the intermediate 
space, and instantly a loud report, like the explosion of a 
mine, followed. She uttered an involuntary shriek, but the 
new sounds that greeted her ear quickly conquered her sur- 
prise. They were piercing shrieks, and uttered without inter- 
mission. The gleams which had diffused themselves far and 
wide, were in a moment withdrawn; but the interior of the 
edifice was filled with rays. 


2 ONE "wets DRT 9 2a es mE IE aires Ame SSNs Mlle ai Mi ye Co! es ie Si RS Ace al eM aa ae ale AM 
i Wile py eaaeres eh Pe ae peek : ; 
be 


aa *y 


THE TRANSVORMATION. — 41 


The first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged, and 
that the structure was on fire. She did not allow herself time 
to meditate a second thought, but rushed into the entry and 
knocked loudly at the door of her brother’s chamber. My 
uncle had been previously roused by the noise, and instantly 
flew to the window. He also imagined what he saw to be 
‘fire. The loud and vehement shrieks which succeeded the 
first explosion seemed to be an invocation of succor. The in- 
cident was inexplicable; but he could not fail to perceive the 
propriety of hastening to the spot. He was unbolting the 
door when his sister's voice was heard on the outside conjur- 
ing him to come forth. 

He obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. 
He stopped not to question her, but hurried down-stairs and 
across the meadow which lay between the house and the rock. 
The shrieks were no longer to be heard; but a blazing light 
was clearly discernible between the columns of the temple. 
Irregular steps, hewn in the stone, led him to the summit. 
On three sides this edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. 
On the fourth side, which might be regarded as the front, 
there was an area of small extent, to which the rude staircase 
conducted you. My uncle speedily gained this spot. His 
strenoth was for a moment exhausted by his haste. He 
paused to rest himself. Meanwhile he bent the most vigilant 
attention toward the object before him. 

Within the columns he beheld what he could no better de- 
scribe than by saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated 
with light. It had the brightness of flame, but was without 
its upward motion. It did not occupy the whole area, and 
rose but a few feet above the floor. No part of the building 
was on fire. This appearance was astonishing. He ap- 
proached the temple. As he went forward the light retired, 
and, when he put his feet within the apartment, utterly 
vanished. The suddenness of this transition increased the 


darkness that succeeded in a tenfold degree. Fear and won- 


der rendered him powerless. An occurrence like this, in a 


4 


WIELAND; OR, 


place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intiniidate the 
stoutest heart. 

His wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans of one 
near him. His sight gradually recovered its power and he 
was able to discern my father stretched on the floor. At that 
moment my mother and servants arrived with a lantern and 
enabled my uncle to examine more closely this scene. My 
father, when he left the house, besides a loose upper vest and 
slippers, wore a shirt and drawers. Now he was naked ; his 
skin throughout the greater part of his body was scorched . 
and-bruised. His right arm exhibited marks as of having 
been struck by some heavy body. His clothes had been 
removed, and it was not immediately perceived that they 
were reduced to ashes. His slippers and his hair were un- 
touched. 

He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite atten- 
tion paid to his wounds, which gradually became more pain- 
ful. A mortification speedily showed itself in the arm which 
had been most hurt. Soon after the other wounded parts 
exhibited the like appearance. 

Immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father seemed 
nearly in a state of insensibility. He was passive under every 
operation. He scarcely opened his eyes, and was with difficulty 
prevailed upon to answer the questions that were put to him. 
By his imperfect account it appeared, that while engaged in 
silent orisons, with thoughts full of confusion and anxiety, a 
faint gleam suddenly shot athwart the apartment. His fancy 
immediately pictured to itself a person bearing a lamp. It 
seemed to come from behind. He was in the act of turning 
_to examine the visitant, when his right arm received a blow 
from a heavy club. At the same instant, a very bright spark 
was seen to light upon his clothes. In a moment, the whole 
was reduced to ashes. This was the sum of the information — 
which he chose to give. There was somewhat in his manner 
that indicated an imperfect tale. My uncle was inclined to 
believe that half the truth had been suppressed. 


NE aa igs fe Mr The RL Re GY: tues Oa hte poe 
<e PORN Pea a © hae 2 t 


THE TRANSFORMATION. © 438 © 


Meanwhile, the disease thus wonderfully generated betrayed 
more terrible symptoms. Fever and delirium terminated in 
lethargic slumber, which, in the course of two hours, gave 
place to death ; yet not till insupportable exhalations and 

crawling putrefaction had driven from his chamber and the 
house every one whom their duty did not detain. 

Such was the end of my father. None, surely, was ever 
more mysterious. When we recollect his gloomy anticipa- 
tions and unconquerable anxiety, the security from human 
malice which his character, the place, and the condition of 
the times might be supposed to confer, the purity and cloud- 
lessness of the atmosphere, which rendered it impossible 
that lightning was the cause, what are the conclusions that 
we must form ? 3 

The prelusive gleam, the blow upon his arm, the fatal 
spark, the explosion heard so far, the fiery cloud that en- 
vironed him, without detriment to the structure, though 
composed of combustible materials, the sudden vanishing of 
this cloud at my uncle’s approach :—what is the inference to 
be drawn from these facts? Their truth cannot be doubted. 
My uncle’s testimony is peculiarly worthy of credit, because 
no man’s temper is more skeptical, and his belief is unalter- 
ably attached to natural causes.* : | 

I was at this time a child of six years of age. The impres- / 
sions that were then made upon me can never be effaced. I . 
was ill qualified to judge respecting what was then passing, 
but as I advanced in age and became more fully acquainted 
with thesé facts, they oftener became the subject of my 
thoughts. Their resemblance to recent events revived them = 
with new force in my memory, and made me more anxious to 3 
explain them. Was this the penalty of disobedience ?—this 


* A case in its symptoms exactly parallel to this is published in one of irre? 
the Journals of Florence’ See, likewise, similar cases reported by Bes 
Messrs. Merrille and Muraire, in the Journal de Medicine for February . 

-and May, 1783. The researches of Maffei and Fontana have thrown 
some light upon this subject. 


iy LON 


‘A ae Bihole of: a nrnccare. “aaa Beis, hand} 2 EBA a fre esh 
ac proof that the Divine Ruler interferes in. human affairs, Se 
- meditates an end, selects and commissions His agents, and en- : an : 

_ forces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to His will? Or 

was it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that tape 

warmth to our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of | 


_ the preceding day, or flowing, by established aie from the 
0 PUR DE his thoughts, : 


CHAPTER III. 


Tur shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned to 
my mother was the foundation of a disease which carried her, 
in a few months, to the grave. My brother and myself were 
children at this time, and were now reduced to the condition 
of orphans. The property which our parents left was by no 
means inconsiderable. It was intrusted to faithful hands till 
we should arrive at a suitable age. Meanwhile our education 
was assigned to a maiden aunt who resided in the city, and 
whose tenderness made us in a short time cease to regret that 
we had lost a mother. 

The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. Our 


lives were molested by few of those cares that are incident to’ 


childhood. By accident more than design, the indulgence 
and yielding temper of our aunt.was mingled with resolution 
and steadfastness. She seldom deviated into either extreme 
of rigor or lenity. Our social pleasures were subject to no 
unreasonable restraints. We were instructed in most branches 
of useful knowledge, and were saved from the corruption and 
tyranny of colleges and boarding-schools. 

Our companions were chiefly selected from the children of 
our neighbors. Between one of these and my brother there 
erew the most affectionate intimacy. Her name was Catharine 
Pleyel. She was rich, beautiful, and contrived to blend the 
most bewitching softness with the most exuberant vivacity. 
The tie by which my brother and she were united seemed to 
add force to the love which I bore her, and which was amply 
returned. Between her and myself there was every circum- 
stance tending to produce and foster friendship. Our sex and 
age were the same. We lived within sight of each other's 
abode. Our tempers were remarkably congenial, and the 


“ 


46 WIELAND ; OR, 
superintendents of our education not only prescribed to us 
the same pursuits, but allowed us to cultivate them together. 

Every day added strength to the triple bonds that united 
us. We gradually withdrew ourselves from the society of 
others, and found every moment irksome that was not devoted 
to each other. My brother’s advance in age made no change 
in our situation. It was determined that his profession should 
be agriculture. His fortune exempted him from the neces- 
sity of personal labor. The task to be performed by him was 
nothing more than superintendence. The skill that was de- 
manded by this was merely theoretical, and was furnished by 
casual inspection, or by closet study. The attention that was 
paid to this subject did not seclude him for any long time 
from us, on whom time had no other effect than to aug- 
ment our impatience in the absence of each other and of him. 
Our tasks, our walks, our music, were seldom performed but 
in each other’s company. 

It was easy to see that Catharine and my brother were born 
for each other. The passion which they mutually entertained 
quickly broke those bonds which extreme youth had set to it; 
confessions were made and extorted, and their union was 
postponed only till my brother had passed his minority. 
The previous lapse of two years was constantly and usefully 
employed. 

Oh, my brother! But the task I have set myself let me 
perform with steadiness. The felicity of that period was 
marred by no gloomy anticipations. The future, like the pres- 
ent, was serene. ‘Time was supposed“ to have only new 
delights in store. J mean not to dwell on previous incidents . 
longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the great 
events that have since happened. The nuptial day at length 
arrived. My brother took possession of the house in which 
he was born, and here the long-protracted marriage was sol- 
emnized. 

My father’s property was equally divided between us. A 
neat dwelling situated on the bank of the river, three-quarters — 


eee Ge ¢ . | ae eer. Miky oe Le Peis. fw) OCP tee ie Re en ee rr te Pm Oe eee ee Are 4s 
By ee Peo chet he Pee He RT Re ne Ne HGRA Taree ety a ig Bo wae iota 


om 


-~ 


THE TRANSFORMATION. | a or 


of a mile from my brother’s, was now occupied by me. These 
domains were called, from the name of the first possessor, 
Mettingen. I can scarcely account for my refusal to take up 
my abode with lim, unless it were from a disposition to be 
an economist of pleasure. Self-denial, seasonably exercised, 
is one means of enhancing our gratifications. I was, besides, 
desirous of administering a fund and regulating a household 
of my own. The short distance allowed us to exchange visits 
as often as we pleased. The walk from one mansion to the 
other was no undelightful prelude to our interviews. I was 
sometimes their visitant and they as frequently were my 
guests. 

Our education had been modelled by no religious stand- 
ard. We were left to the guidance of our own understand- 
ing and the casual impressions which society might make 
upon us. My friend’s temper, as well as my own, exempted 
us from much anxiety on this account. It must not be sup- 
posed that we were without religion ; but with us it was the 
product of lively feelings, excited by reflection on our own 
happiness, and by the grandeur of external nature. We sought 
not a basis for our faith in the weighing of proofs and the dis- 
section of creeds. Our devotion was a mixed and casual sen- 
timent, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought, or 
carefully retained. In the midst of present enjoyment no 
thought was bestowed on the future. As a consolation in 
calamity religion is dear. But calamity was yet ata distance, 
and its only tendency was to heighten enjoyments which 
needed not this addition to satisfy every craving. 

My brother’s situation was somewhat different. His deport- 
ment was grave, considerate, and thoughtful. I will not say 
whether he was indebted to sublimer views for this disposition. 
Human life, in his opinion, was made up of changeable ele- 
ments, and the principles of duty were not easily unfolded. 
The future, either as anterior or subsequent to death, was a 
scene that required some preparation and provision to be 
made for it. These provisions we could not deny ; but what 


ort hh ¢ 


WIELAND; OR 


distinguished him was a propensity to ruminate on these 


truths. The images that visited us were blithesome and gay, 


but those with which he was most familiar were of an oppo- 
site hue. They did not generate affliction and fear, but they 


diffused over his behavior a certain air of forethought and 


sobriety. ‘The principal effect of this temper was visible in 
his features and tones. These in general bespoke a sort of 
thrilline melancholy. I scarcely ever knew him to laugh. 
He never accompanied the lawless mirth of his companions 
with more than a smile, but his conduct was the same as ours. 

He partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal 
not less than ours, but of a different kind. The diversity in 


in our temper was never the parent of discord, and was 


scarcely a topic of regret. The scene was variegated but not 
tarnished or disordered by it. It hindered the element in 
which we moved from stagnating. Some agitation and con- 
cussion is requisite to the due exercise of human under- 
standing. In his studies he pursued an austerer and more 
arduous path. He was much conversant with the history of 
religious opinions, and took pains te ascertain their validity. 
He deemed it indispensable to examine the ground of his 
belief, to settle the relations between motives and actions, the 
criterion of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence. 
There was an obvious resemblance between him and my 
father in their conceptions of the importance of certain topics, 
and in the light in which the vicissitudes of human life were 
accustomed to be viewed. Their characters were similar ; but 
the mind of the son was enriched by science and embellished 
with hterature. sae 
The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. From 
an Italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he 


could find employment for his skill and sale for his sculptures 


in America, my brother had purchased a bust of Cicero. He 
professed to have copied this piece from an antique dug up 
with his own hands in the environs of Modena. Of the truth 
of his assertion we were not qualified to judge ; but the mar-— 


_-.  ‘THH TRANSFORMATION. jet 


ble was pure and polished, and we were contented to admire 


the performance, without waiting for the sinction of connois- 
seurs. We hired the same artist to hewa suitable pedestal 
from a neighboring quarry. This was placed in the temple 
and the bust rested upon it. Opposite to this was a harp- 


sichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. 


This was the place of resort in the evenings of summer. 
Here we sung, and talked and read, and occasionaliy ban- 
queted. Hvery joyous and tender scene most dear to my 
memory is connected with this edifice. Here the perform- 
ances of our musical and poetical ancestors were rehearsed. 
Here my brother’s children received the rudiments of their 
education ; here a thousand conversations, pregnant with de- 
heht and improvement, took place; and here the social af- 
fections were accustomed to expand, and the tear of delicious 
sympathy to be shed. ; 

My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors 
whom he read were numerous ; but the chief object of his 
veneration was Cicero. He was never tired of conning and 
rehearsing his productions. To understand them was not suf- 
ficient. He was anxious to discover the gestures and ca- 
dences with which they ought to be delivered. He was very 
scrupulous in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation for the 
Latin tongue, and in adapting it to the words of his darling 
writer. His fayorite occupation consisted in embellishing his 
rhetoric with all the proprieties of gesticulation and utterance. 

Not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and 
restoring the purity of the text. For this end he collected 
all the editions and commentaries that could be procured, 
and employed months of severe study in exploring and com- 
paring them. He never betrayed more satisfaction than when 
he made a discovery of this kind. 

Jt was not till the addition of Henry Pleyel, my friend's 
only brother, to our society, that his passion for Roman elo- 
quence was countenanced and fostered by a sympathy of 


_tastes.. This young man had been some years in Hurope. 


50 WIELAND. 


We had separated at a very early age, and he was now re- 
turned to spend the remainder of his days among us. 

Our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a new 
member. His conversation abounded with novelty. His 
gayety was almost boisterous, but was capable of yielding to 
a grave deportment when the occasion required it. His dis- 
cernment was acute; but he was prone to view every object 
merely as supplying material for mirth. His conceptions 
were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory, aided, as he hon- 
estly acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhaustible 
fund of entertainment. 

His residence was at the same distance below the city as 
ours was above, but there seldom passed a day without our 
being favored with a visit. My brother and he were endowed 
with the same attachment to the Latin writers; and Pleyel 
was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the history and 
metaphysics of religion. Their creeds, however, were in many 
respects opposite. Where one discovered only confirmations 
of his faith, the other could find nothing but reasons for 
doubt. Moral necessity and Calvinistic inspiration were the 
props on which my brother thought proper to repose. Pleyel 
was the champion of intellectual liberty, and rejected all 
euidance but that of his reason. Their discussions were fre- 
quent, but, being managed with candor as well as with skill, 
they were always listened to by us with avidity and benefit. 

Pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry 
Henceforth our concerts consisted of two violins, a harpsi- 
chord, and three voices. We were frequently reminded how 
much happiness depends upon society. This new friend, 
though before his arrival we were sensible of no vacuity, 
could not now be spared. His departure would occasion a 
void which nothing could fill, and which would produce in- 
supportable regret. yen my brother, though his opinions 
were hourly assailed, and even the divinity of Cicero con- 
tested, was captivated with his friend, and laid aside some 
part of his ancient gravity at Pleyel’s approach. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away since 
my brother’s marriage. The sound of war had been heard, 
but it was at such a distance as to enhance our enjoyment by 
affording objects of comparison. The Indians were repulsed 
on the one side, and Canada was conquered on the other. 
Revolutions and batiles, however calamitous to those who 
occupied the scene, contributed in some sort to our happi- 
hess, by agitating our minds with curiosity and furnishing 
causes of patriotic exultation. Four children, three of whom 
were of an age to compensate, by their personal and mental 
progress, the cares of which they had been, at a more help- 
less age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. The 


fourth was a charming babe that promised to display the 


image of her mother, and enjoyed perfect health. To these 
were added a sweet girl, fourteen years old, who was loved 
by all of us with an affection more than parental. 

Her mother’s story was a mournful one, She had come 
hither from England when this child was an infant, alone, 
without friends, and without money. She appeared to have 
embarked ina hasty and clandestine manner. She passed 
three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt’s protec- 
tion, and died a martyr to woe, the source of which she could 
by no importunities be prevailed upon to unfold. Her edu- 
cation and manners bespoke her to be of no mean birth, 
Her last moments were rendered serene by the assurances 
she received from my aunt that her daughter should experi- 
ence the same protection that had been extended to herself. 

On my brother’s marriage it was agreed that she should 


make a part of his family. I cannot do justice to the attrac- 


59 - WIELAND; OR, 


tions of this girl. Perhaps the tenderness she excited might 
partly originate in her personal resemblance to her mother, 
whose character and misfortunes were still fresh in our re- 
membrance. She was habitually pensive, and this circum- 
stance tended to remind the spectator of her friendless con- 
dition; and yet that epithet was surely misapplied in this 
ease. ‘This being was cherished with unspeakable fondness 


by those with whom she now resided. Every exertion was 


made to enlarge and improve her mind. Her safety was the 
object of a solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds of dis- 
cretion. Our affection, indeed, could scarcely transcend her 
merits. She never met my eye or occurred to my reflections 
without exciting a kind of enthusiasm. Her softness, her in- 
telligence, her equanimity, never shall I see surpasséd. I 
have often shed tears of pleasure at her approach aud pressed 
her to my bosom in an agony of fondness. 

While every day was adding to the charms of her person 
and the stores of her mind, there oceurred an event which 
threatened to deprive us of her. An. officer of some rank, 
who had been disabled by a wound at Quebec, had employed 
himself, since the ratification of peace, in travelling through 
the colonies. He remained a considerable period at Phila- 
delphia, but was at last preparing for his departure. No one 
had been more frequently honored with his visits than Mrs. 
Baynton, a worthy lady with whom our family were intimate. 


He went to her house with a view to perform a farewell visit, 


and was on the point of taking his leave when I and my 
young friend entered the apartment. It is impossible to de- 
scribe the emotions of the stranger when he fixed his eyes 
upon my companion. He was motionless with surprise. He 
was unable to conceal his feelings, but sat silently gazing at 


the spectacle before him. At length he turned to Mrs. Bayn-— 


ton, and, more by his looks and gestures than by words, be- 
sought her for an explanation of the scene. He seized the 
hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was surprised by his be- 
havior, and, drawing her forward, said, in an eager and fal- 


THE TRANSFORMA TIONS 53 


tering tone, “Who is she? whenee does she come? what is 
her name?” 

The answers that were given only increased the confusion 
of his thoughts. He was successively told that she was the 
daughter of one whose name was Louisa Conway, who ar- 
rived among us at such a time, who sedulously concealed her 
parentage and the motives of her flight, whose incurable griefs 
had finally destroyed her, and who had left this child under 
the protection of her friends. Having heard the tale, he 
melted into tears, eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, 
and called himself her father. When the tumults ‘excited in 
is breast by this unlooked-for meeting were somewhat sub- 
sided, he gratified our curiosity by relating the following in- 
cidents : 

“Miss Conway was the only daughter of a banker in Lon- 
don, who discharged toward her every duty of an affection- 
ate father. He had chanced to fall into her company, had 
been subdued by her attractions, had tendered her his hand, 

and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. His 
wife had given him every proof of the fondest attachment, 
Her father, who possessed immense wealth, treated him with 
distinguished respect, liberally supplied his wants, and had 
made one condition of his consent to their union, a resolution 
to take up their abode with him. 

“They had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which 
had been augmented by the birth of this child, when his 

_ professional duty called him into Germany. It was not with- 
out an arduous strugele that she was persuaded to- relinquish 
the design of accompanying him through all the toils and 
perils of war.. No parting was ever more distressful. They 
strove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their Jot, 
Those of his wife breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety 
and impatience of his absence. At length a new arrangement 
was made, and he was obliged to repair from Westphalia to 
Canada. One advantage attended this change; it afforded 
him an opportunity of meeting his family. His wife antici- 


RA en 


Weer ERE Ry ee OP ed 
54. 3 WIELAND; OR, 


pated this interview with no less rapture than himself. He 
hurried to London, and, the moment he alighted from the 
stage-coach, ran with all speed to Mr. Conway’s house. 

“Tt was a house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed 
with grief and incapable of answering his inquiries. The 
servants, sorrowful and mute, were equally refractory. He 
explored the house, and called on the names of his wife and 
daughter, but his summons were fruitless. At length this 
new disaster was explained. Two days before his arrival, 
his wife’s chamber was found empty. No search, however 
diligent and anxious, could-trace her steps. No cause could 
be assigned for her disappearance. The mother and child 
had fled away together. 

‘‘New exertions were made; her chamber and cabinets 
were ransacked ; but no vestige was found serving to inform 
them as to the motives of her flight, whether it had been 
voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner of the kingdom or 
of the world she was concealed. Who shall describe the sor- 
row and amazement of the husband, his restlessness, his 
vicissitudes of hope and fear, and his ultimate despair? His 
duty called him to America. He had been in this city, and 
had frequently passed the door of the house in which his 


wife at that moment resided. Her father had not remitted | 


his exertions to elucidate this painful mystery ; but they had 
failed. This disappointment hastened his death: in conse- 
quence of which Louisa’s father became possessor of his im- 
mense property.” 

This tale was a copious theme of speculation. A thousand 
questions were started and discussed in our domestic circle 
respecting the motives that influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon 
her country. — It did not appear that her proceeding was in- 
voluntary. We recalled and reviewed every particular that 
had fallen under our own observation. By none of these 
were we furnished with a clue. Her conduct, after the most 
rigorous scrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. On 
a nearer view, Mojor Stuart proved himself a man of most 


s na a ony 


Ri ey ie un 
ct a Se ae be 


<7 = , ae 


yes 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 5D 


amiable character. His attachment to Louisa appeared hourly 
to increase. She was no stranger to the sentiments suitable 
to her new character. She could not but readily embrace 
the scheme which was proposed to her—to return with her 
father to Kneland. This scheme his regard for her induced 
him, however, to postpone, Some time was necessary to pre- 
pare her for so great a change and enable her to think with- 
out agony of the separation from us. 

I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely 
to relinquish this unwelcome design. Meanwhile, he pursued 
his travels through the southern colonies, and his daughter 
continued with us. Louisa and my brother frequently re- 
ceived letters from him which indicated a mind of no common 
order. ‘They were filled with amusing details and profound 
reflections. While here, he often partook of our evening 
conversations at the temple; and since his departure his 
correspondence had frequently supplied us with topics of 
discourse. | 

One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air and bright- 
ness of the verdure induced us to assemble earlier than usual 
in the temple. We females were busy at the needle, while - 
my brother and Pleyel were bandying quotations and syllo- 
gisms. The point discussed was the merit of the oration for 
Cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of the speaker, 
and, secondly, of the manners of the times. Pleyel labored to 
extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his in- 
genuity to show that the orator had embraced a bad cause, 
or, at least, a doubtful one. He urged that to rely on the 
exaggerations of an advocate, or to make the picture of a 
single family a model from which to sketch the condition of 
a nation, was absurd. The controversy was suddenly diverted 

. into a new channel by a misquotation. Pleyel accused his 
companion of saying “ polliciatur” when he should have said 
“polliceretur.” Nothing would decide the contest but an 
appeal to the volume. My brother was returning to the 
house for this purpose when a servant met him with a letter 


i os : 
te! OLS ales : j 
> ees Po 


* ai ~ aa, ee On). Oy. ot ae ee CPE eR et LE ka lA Taegan Bae! @ Ce? gr TS 
oe “J As a od Bay 3 ee eR RN Eta eo het te MRS TE eae 6 ig eke eae my 5G 
PES ae ee Te NOE PR ee MRI Ce a eh Papas NS by Rae 
x irs Sth LORE emthas sees at ae ‘ie Ry : ‘ 
KA po Seed 9 , . 
ES, 


Ly Sart) 


56 BLAND OR Dene ee 


from Major Stuart. He immediately returned to get it in 
our company. : 

Besides affectionate compliments to us and warecnal bene: 
dictions on Louisa, his letter contained a description of a 
waterfall onthe Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, 
we were compelled to remove to. the house. The storm 
passed away, and a radiant moonlight succeeded. ‘There was 
no motion to resume our seats.in the temple. We therefore 
remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversa- 
tion. The letter lately received naturally suggested - the 
topic. A parallel was drawn between _the cataract there de- 
scribed and one which Pleyel had discovered among the Alps 


of Glarus. In the state of the former, some particular was 


mentioned the truth of which was questionable. To settle 
the dispute which thence arose it was proposed to- have re- 
course to the ‘letter. My brother searched for it in his 


pocket. It was nowhere to be found. At length he remem- 


bered to have left it in the temple, and he determined to go 
in search for it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself, re- 
mained where we were. 

In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat erste’ 
in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return ; 
yet, as Iheard him ascending the stairs, I could not but re- 
mark that he had executed -his intention with remarkable de- 


spatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. Me- 


thought he brought with him looks considerably different from 
those with which he departed. Wonder and a slight portion 


of anxiety were mingled in them. His eyes seemed to be in 


search of some object. They passed quickly from one person 
to another, till they rested on his wife. She was seated in a 


careless attitude on the sofa, in the same spot as before. She - 


had the same muslin in her hand by which her atonuion was 
chiefly engrossed. 


The moment he saw her his perplexity San increased. — 


He quietly seated himself, and, fixing his eyes on the floor, 


appeared to be absorbed in meditation. These singularities _ 


Po 


THE TRANSFORMATION. erik) 


suspended the inquiry which I was preparing to make re- 
specting the letter. Ina short time, the company relinquished 
the subject which engaged them, and directed their attention 
to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause 
in the discourse to produce the letter. The pause was unin- 
terrupted by him. At length Pleyel said, ‘‘ Well, I suppose 
you have found the letter ?” 

“No,” said he, without any abatement of his gravity and 
looking steadfastly at his wife ; “I did not mount the hill.” 
—‘* Why not ?”—‘ Catharine, have you not moved from that 
spot since I left the room?” She was affected with the 
solemnity of his manner, and, laying down her work, answer- 
ed, in a tone of surprise, “No. Why do you ask that ques- 
tion?” His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did 
not immediately answer. At length he said, looking round 
upon us, ‘Is it true that Catharine did not follow me to the 
hill?—that she did not just now enter the room?” We 
assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for 
a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions. 

‘Your assurances,” said he, ‘‘are solemn and unanimous ; 
and yet I must deny credit to your assertions or disbelieve 
the testimony of my senses, which informed me, when I was 
half-way up the hill, that Catharine was at the bottom.” 

We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied 
him with great levity on his behavior. He listened to his 
friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features. 

“One thing,” said he, with emphasis, ‘is true: either I 
heard my wife’s voice at the bottom of the hill or I do not 
hear your voice at present.” 

“Truly,” returned Pleyel, “itis a sad dilemma to which. 
you have reduced yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can > 
give us certainty, that your wife has been sitting in that spot 
during every moment of your absence. You have heard her 
voice, you say, upon the hill. In general her voice, like her — 
temper, is all softness. To be heard across the room, 
: ‘she is obliged to exert herself. While you were gone, ifI — 


vo 


58 WIELAND; OR, 


mistake not, she did not utter a word. Clara and I had all 
the talk to ourselves. Still, it may be that she held a 
whispering conference with you on the hill; but tell us the 
particulars.” | 

“The conference,” said he, ‘‘ was short, and far from being 
carried on in a whisper. You know with what intention I left 
the house. Half-way to the rock, the moon was for a moment 
hidden from us by acloud. I never knew the air to be more 
bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced at the 
temple, and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. 
It was so faint that it would not perhaps have been visible if 
the moon had not been shrouded. I looked again but saw 
nothing. I never visit this building alone, or at night, with- 
out being reminded of the fate of my father. There was noth- 
ine wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested some- 
thing more than mere solitude and darkness in the same 
place would have done, 

“JT kept on my way. The images that haunted me were 
solemn ; and I entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, 
as to the nature of this object. I had ascended the hill little 
more than half way when a voice called me from behind. 
The accents were clear, distinct, powerful, and were uttered, 
as I fully believed, by my wife. Her voice is not commonly 
so loud. She has seldom oceasion to exert it; but, neverthe- 
less, I have sometimes heard her call with force and eager- 
ness. If my ear was not deceived, it was her voice which I 
heard : 

«Stop! go no farther. There is danger in your path.’ 
The suddenness and unexpectedness of this warning, the tone 
of alarm with which it was given, and, above all, the persua- 
sion that it was my wife who spoke, were enough to discon- 
cert and make me pause. I turned, and listened to assure 
myself that I was not mistaken. .The deepest silence suc- 
ceeded. At length I spoke inmy turn :—‘ Who calls? Is it 


‘you, Catharine?’ -I stopped, and presently received an an- 
J 3 a 


swer; ‘Yes, it is I; go not up; return instantly; you are 


THE TRANSFORMATION. mee” BO 


wanted at the house.’ Still the voice was Catharine’s, and 

still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs. 
“What could Ido? The warning was mysterious. To be 
uttered by Catharine at a place and on an occasion like this 
enhanced the mystery. I couid do nothing but obey. Ac- 
cordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting that she waited 
for me at the bottom of the hill. When I reached the bot- 
tom no one was visible. The moonlight was once more uni- 
versal and brilliant, and yet, as far as I could see, no human 
or moying figure was discernible. If she had returned to the 

house, she must have used wondrous expedition to have 
passed already beyond the reach of my eye. I exerted my 
voice, but in vain. ‘To my repeated exclamations no answer 
was returned. | 

‘“‘ Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There 
was no room to doubt that I had heard my wife’s voice ; at- 
tending incidents were not easily explained; but you now 
assure me that nothing extraordinary has happened to urge 
my return, and that my wife has not moved from her seat.” 

Such was my brother’s narrative. It was heard by us with 
different emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard the 
whole as a deception of the senses. Perhaps a voice had 
been heard; but Wieland’s imagination had misled him in 
supposing a resemblance to that of his wife and giving such 
a signification to the sounds. According to his custom, he 
spoke what he thought. Sometimes he made it the theme of 
erave discussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. 
He did not believe that sober reasoning would convince his 
friend ; and gayety, he thought, was useful to take away the 
solemnities which, in a mind like Wieland’s, an accident of 
this kind was calculated to produce. 

Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He went, 
and speedily returned, bearing it in hishand. He had found 
it open on the pedestal; and neither voice nor visage had 
risen to impede his design. 

Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good 


Be 
rm 
: oo 
ni 
3 
4 
X! 


¥ 


pe iiss 


60 
sense; but her mind was accessible, on this quarter, to won- 
der and panic. That her voice should be thus inexplicably 
and unwarrantably assumed was a source of no small disquie- 
tude. She admitted the plausibility of the arguments by 
which Pleyel endeavored to prove that this was no more than 
an auricular deception; but this conviction was sure to be 
shaken when she turned her eyes upon her husband and per- 
ceived that Pleyel’s logic was far from having produced the 
same effect upon him. 

As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence, 
I could not fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between 
it and my father's death. On the latter event I had frequently 
reflected; my reflections never conducted me to a certaiiity, 
but the doubts that existed were not of a tormenting kind. I 
could not deny that the event was miraculous, and yet I was 
invincibly averse to. that method of solution. My wonder 
was excited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my won- 
der was unmixed with sorrow or fear. It begat in mea 
thrilling and not unpleasing solemnity. Similar to these were 
the sensations produced by the recent adventure. 

But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief 
moment. All that was desirable was that it should be re- 
garded by him with indifference. The worst effect that could 
flow was not indeed very formidable. Yet I could not bear 
to think that his senses should be the victims of such delu- 
sion. It argued a diseased condition of his frame, which 
might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. 
The will is the tool of the understanding, which must fash- 
ion its conclusions on the notices of sense. If the senses 
be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that 
may flow from the consequent deductions of the understand- 

Ping. 

I said, This man is of an ardent and melancholy character. 
Those ideas which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are 
entertained in moments of abstraction and solitude and easily 
escape when the scene is changed, have obtained an im- 


ws met a 4 


movable hold upon his mind. The conclusions which long 
habit have rendered familiar and, in some sort, palpable to his 
intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions 
and practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse de- 
ductions from the system of divine government and the laws 
of our intellectual constitution. He is in some respects an 
enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by innumerable argu- 
ments and subtleties. | 

His father’s death was. always regarded by him as flowing 
from a direct and supernatural decree. It visited his medita- 
tions oftener than it did mine. The traces which it left were 
more gloomy and permanent. This new incident had a visible 
effect in augmenting his gravity. He was less disposed than 
formerly to converse and reading. When we sifted lis 
thoughts they were generally found to have a relation more 
or less direct with this incident. It was difficult to ascertain 
the exact species of impression which it made upon him. He 
never introduced the subject into conversation, and listened 
with a silent and half-serious smile to the satirical effusions of 
Pleyel. 

One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. 
I seized that opportunity of investigating the state of his 
thoughts, After a pause, which he seemed in nowise inclined 
to interrupt, I spoke to him: ‘“ How almost palpable is this 
dark! yet a ray from above would dispel it.” “Ay,” said 
Wieland, with fervor; “not only the physical but moral 
night would be dispelled.” ‘But why,” said I, “must the 
divine will address its precepts to the eye?” He smiled sig- 
nificantly. ‘“ True,” said he; ‘‘the understanding has other 
avenues.” ‘ You have never,” said I, approaching nearer to 
the point—‘“ you have never told me in what way you con- 
sidered the late extraordinary incident.” ‘There is no de- 
terminate way in which the subject can be viewed. Here isan 
effect ; but the cause is utterly inscrutable. To suppose a de- 
ception will not do. Such is possible, but there are twenty 
_ other suppositions more probable. They must all be set aside 


THE TRANSFORMATION. eG] 


2 ae we oe that point.” | “What a are Bene: twenty ie 
fe, oe "2 STb is. needless. to” mention them. — ‘They 


- 


Eo fie sho certainty. Till ites! iti is s useless to expatinte on 
them,” | 


” 


We Po ate’ ie > a on 4 ‘ 


CHAPTER V. 


Some time had elapsed when there happened another occur- 
rence, still more remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from 
Kurope, brought information of considerable importance to 
my brother. My ancestors were noble Saxons, and possessed 
Jarge domains in Lusatia. The Prussian wars had destroyed 
those persons whose right to these estates precluded my 
brother’s. Pleyel had been exact in his inquiries, and had 
discovered that, by the law of male-primogeniture, my broth- 
er’s claims were superior to those of any other person now 
living. Nothing was wanting but his presence in that coun- 
try and a legal application to establish his claim. 

Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The ad- 
vantages he thought attending it were numerous, and it 
would argue the utmost folly to neglect them. .Contrary to 


his expectation, he found my brother averse to the scheme. 


Slight efforts, he at first thought, would subdue his reluc- 
tance ; but he found this aversion by no means slight. The 
interest that he took in the happiness of his friend and his 
sister, and his own partiality to the Saxon soil, from which 
he had likewise sprung, and where he had spent several years 
of his youth, made him redouble his exertions to win Wie- 
land's consent. For this end he employed every argument 
that his invention could suggest. He painted in attractive 
colors the state of manners and government in that country, 


_ the security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sen- 


fiments. He dwelt on the privileges of wealth and rank, and 
drew from the servile condition of one class an argument in 
favor of his scheme, since the revenue and power annexed to 


a German principality afford so large a field for benevolence. 


The evil flowing from this power, in malignant hands, was 


~ 


Che cere “WIRLAND ; “OR, ee 


meeporiiened to the good that oud arise fram the eae F 
use of it. Hence, Wieland, in forbearing to claim his: own, Se 
withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his vas-__ 
sals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would 
redound from a less enlightened proprietor. _ 
It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and 
to show that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and . 
liberty to that which he at present inhabited—that, if the a 
Saxons had nothing to fear from miscovernment, the external a 
causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and manifest. er 


The recent devastations committed by the Prussians furnish-_ oct 
ed a specimen of these. The horrors of war would always —— _ 
impend over them, till Germany was seized and divided by | = 
Austrian and Prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly Soe 
suspected was at no great distance. But, setting these con-  — a 
siderations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and Re: 
power even when they were within our reach? Were not ; - 
these the two great sources of depravity? What security “ig 
had he that in this change of place and condition he should ae 
not degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary ? Power and | s 
riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of their ten-.. (as 
deney to deprave the possessor. He held them in abhorrence, — . 
not only as instruments of misery to others, but to him on = 
whom they were conferred. Besides, riches were compara- 2 

a7 


tive ; and was he not rich already? He lived at present in. ~~ 
the bosom of security and luxury. All the imstruments of +4 
pleasure on which his reason or imagination set any value 2 
were within his reach. But these he must forego, for the sake _ 

of advantages which, whatever were their value, were as yet 
uncertain. In pursuit of an imaginary addition to his wealth 
he must reduce himself to poverty ; he must exchange pres- 
ent certainties for what was distant and contingent ; for who 

knows not that the law is a system of expense, delay, and | 
uneertainty? If he should embrace this scheme, it would 
lay him under the necessity of making a voyage to Europe, 
pa remaning for a certain Race separate from his family: a 


- He must undergo the perils and discomforts of the ocean ; 


he must divest himself of all domestic pleasures; he must 
deprive his wife of her companion, and children of a father 
and instructor—and all for what? For the ambiguous ad- 
vantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny have 
to bestow? For a precarious possession in a land of turbu- 
lence and war? Advantages which will not certainly be 
gained, and of which the acquisition, if it were sure, is 
necessarily distant. 

Pleyel was enamored of his scheme on account of its in- 
trinsic benefits, but likewise for other reasons. His abode at 
Leipsic made that country appear to him like home. He was 


connected with this place by many social ties. While there, 


he had not escaped the amorous contagion. But the lady, 


though her heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled 


to bestow her hand upon another. Death had removed this 
impediment, and he was now invited by the lady herself to 
return. This he was of course determined to do, but was 
anxious to obtain the company of Wieland—he could not bear 
to think of an eternal separation from his present associates. 
Their interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by the 
change than his own. Hence he was importunate and inde- 
fatigable.in his arguments and solicitations. 


He knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister’s — 


ready concurrence in this scheme. Should the subject be 
mentioned to us, we should league our efforts against him 
and strengthen that reluctance in Wieland which already was 


sufficiently difficult to conquer. He therefore anxiously con- 


cealed from us his purpose. If Wieland were previously en- 
listed in his cause, he would find it a less difficult task to 
overcome our aversion. My brother was silent on this sub- 
ject, because he believed himself in no danger of changing 


his opinion, and he was willing to save us from any uneasi- — 


ness. The mere mention of such a scheme, and the possibil- 
ity of his embracing it, he knew, would considerably impair 
our tranquillity. © 


* THE TRANSFORMATION. ~~ = 65. 


oat 


e ee pots He aes. ae 


66 acc WIELAND ; OR, 


One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious 
eall, it was agreed that the family should be my guests. Sel- 
dom had a day been passed by us of more serene enjoyment, 
Pleyel had promised us his company; but we did not see 
him till the sun had nearly declined. He brought with him a 
countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. 
He did not wait for our inquiries but immediately explained 
the cause. Two days before a packet had arrived from Ham- 
bure, by which he had flattered himself with the expectation 
of receiving letters ; but no letters had arrived. I never saw 
him so much subdued by an ontoward event. His thoughts 
were employed in accounting for the silence of lis friends, 
He was seized with the torments of jealousy, and suspected 
nothing less than the infidelity of her to whom he had devoted 
his heart. The silence must have been concerted. Her sick- 
ness, or absence, or death, would have increased the certainty 
of someone’s having written. No supposition could be 
formed but that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that 
she had transferred her affections to another. ‘The miscar- 
riage of a letter was hardly within the reach of possibility. 
From Leipsic to Hamburg and from Hamburg hither the 
conveyance was exposed to no hazard. 

He had been so long detained in America chiefly in conse- 
quence of Wieland’s aversion to the scheme which he pro- 
posed. He now became more impatient than ever to return 
to Europe. ‘When he reflected that by his delays he had 
probably forfeited the affections of his mistress, his sensa- 
tions amounted to, agony. It only remained by his speedy 
departure to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an 

evil. Already he had half resolved to embark in this very 
ship, which, he was informed, would set out in a few weeks 
on her return. 

Meanwhile he determined to gale a new attempt to shake 
the resolution of Wieland. The evening was somewhat ad- 
vanced when he invited the latter to walk abroad with him. 
The invitation was accepted, and they left Catharine, Louisa, 


a A 


P es ee a ee Ce ene a we NR I ee ey RL Ee ee ne Na 
: hea a7 ean cr fe see BOs na Sie ome a Sean eee ft oe Pilati. te Gt hoe 
eres t aang at Nae Nae . a ’ se phe ety” Fite J - : 
‘ OY Boe ne hoe Leo. yu © Re ¥ i y ; Pa Sidi - by ; 
Jj 7 ae . > ee . . 7 . rs 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 67 


and me to amuse ourselves by the best means in our power. 
During this walk, Pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest 
his heart. He re-urged all-his former arguments and placed 
them in more forcible lights. 

They promised to return sbortly ; but hour after hour 
passed, and they made not their appearance. Hngaged in 
sprightly conversation, it was not till the clock struck twelve 
that we were reminded of the lapse of time. The absence 
of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions. We were 
expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to 
what might be the cause, when they entered together. 
There were indications in their countenances that struck 
me mute. ~These were unnoticed by Catharine, who was 
eager to express her surprise and curiosity at the leneth 
of thei walk. As they listened to her, I remarked that 
their surprise was not less than ours. They gazed in 
silence on each other and on her. I watched their looks, 
but could not understand the emotions that were written in 
them. Le 

These appearances diverted Catharine’s inquiries into a new 
channel. What did they mean, she asked, by their silence, 
and by their thus gazing wildly at each other and at her? 
Pleyel profited by this hint, and, assuming an air of indiffer- 
ence, framed some trifling excuse, at the same time darting 
sienificant glances at Wieland, as if to caution him against 
disclosing the truth. My brother said nothing, but delivered 
himself up to meditation. I likewise was silent, but burned 
with impatience to fathom this mystery. Presently my 
brother and his wife and Louisa returned home. Pleyel 
proposed, of his own accord, to be my guest for the night. 
This.circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave 
new edge to my wonder. 

As soon as we were left alone Pleyel’s countenance as- 
sumed an air of seriousness, and even consternation, which 
I had never before beheld in him. The steps with which he 
measured the floor betokened the trouble of his thoughts. 


S : é - pop bis ee Oy =e . 7 = 4 x 
Re = a : ‘ deh LS . : er F pis iy a, ete be «“ 
a ie | ? ti = eo +3 rail saa aot Sop yes) 2 te PE Ge 


Sebati ae WIELAND; OR, — 


My inquiries were suspended by the hope that he would give 
me the information that I wanted without the importunity of 
questions. I waited some time, but the confusion of his 
thoughts appeared in no degree to abate. At length I men- 
- tioned the apprehensions which their unusual absence had oc- 
-casioned, and which were increased by their behavior since 
their return, and solicited an explanation. He stopped when 
I began to speak and looked steadfastly at me. When I had 
done he said to me, in a tone which faltered through the- 
vehemence of his emotions, ‘‘ How were you employed during 
our absence?” “In turning over the Della Crusca diction-  - 
ary and talking on different subjects ; but just before your 
* entrance we were tormenting ourselves with omens and prog- 
| nostics relative to your absence.” ‘Catharine was with you 
the whole time?” “Yes.” “But are you sure?” ‘Most 
sure. She was not absent a moment.” He stood, for a time, 
“as if to assure himself of my sincerity. Then, clinching his 
hands and wildly lifting them above his head, ‘‘ Lo,” cried he, ‘ 
“‘T have news to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead !” 
This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at the 
agitation which he betrayed. ‘But how was the information 
_ procured? How was the truth of this news connected with 
ag the circumstance of Catharine’s remaining in our company?” ? 
_ He was for some time inattentive to my questions. - When he oe 
-. . spoke it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into : ZI 
~ which he had been plunged. | Ba 
“And yet it might be a mere deception.. But could both oa 
of us in that case have been deceived? A rare and prodig- ae 
ious coincidence! “Barely not impossible. And yet, if the 
- accent be oracular, Theresa is dead. No, no !” continued he, — 
covering his face with his hands, and in atone half broken = 
e Sato sobs, ‘“‘I cannot believe it. She has not written ; but, if 
she were dead, the faithful Bertrand would have given me the 
: earliest information. And yet, if he knew his master, he must 
have easily guessed at the effect of such tidings. In pity to 
~me he was silent. ) | | 


(HW TRANSFORMATION. —C«SD 


“Clara, forgive me; to you this behavior is mysterious. 
I will explain as well as I am able. But say not a word to 
Catharine. Her streneth of mind is inferior to yours. She 
will, besides, have more-reason to be startled. She is Wie- 
land's angél.” 

Pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the 
scheme which he had pressed with so much earnestness on 
my brother. He enumerated the objections which had been 
made, and the industry with which he had endeavored to con- 
fute them. He mentioned the effect upon his resolutions 
produced by failure of a letter. ‘During our late walk,” 
continued he, ‘I introduced the subject that was nearest my 
heart. I re-urged all my former arguments, and placed them 
“in more forcible lights. Wieland was still refractory. He 
expatiated on the perils of. wealth and power, on the sacred- 
ness of conjugal and parental duties, and the happiness of 
mediocrity. 

“No wonder that the time passed unperceived away. Our 
whole souls were engaged in this cause. Several times we 
came to the foot of the rock: as soon as we perceived it we 
changed our course, but never failed to terminate our cir- 
cuitous and devious ramble at this spot. At length your 
brother observed, ‘We seem to be led hither by a kind of 
fatality. Since we are so near, let us ascend and rest our- 
selves a while. If you are not weary of this argument we. 
will resume it there.’ 

“T tacitly consented. We mounted the stairs, and, draw- 
ing the sofa in front of the river, we seated ourselves upon 
it. I took up the thread of our discourse where we had 
dropped it. Ividiculed his dread of the sea, and his attach- 


ment to home. Ikept on in this’strain, so congenial with 


my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him. At 
length he said to me, ‘Suppose, now, that I, whom areument 
has not convinced, should yield to ridicule, and should agree 
that your scheme is eligible: what will you have gained? 


Nothing. You have other enemies besides myself to en- 


PSE by i ee Se LETS LL Wel hee ae Stee oe Tee 
= wor ies 2 me pes ree “hee % reg ts Ral i et re) 
UR bie accra MORE Larter SD Siem ct ake eee RY ae aS 


Geert, 
4 Sey eager tie > 
ibe ; * be SER ay es 


10.2 WINEANDS “OR 


‘ % 
counter. When you have vanquished me your toil has 
scarcely begun. There are my sister and wife, with whom it 
will remain for you’to maintain the contest. And, trust me, 
they are adversaries whom all your force and stratagem will 
never subdue.’ I insinuated that they would model them- 
selves by his will; that Catharine would think obedience her 
duty. He answered, with some quickness, ‘ You mistake. 
Their concurrence is indispensable. It is not my custom to 
exact sacrifices of this kind. I live to be their protector and 
friend, and not their tyrant and foe. If my wife shall deem 
her happiness and that of her children most consulted by re- 
maining where she is, here she shall remain.’ < But,’ said’ I, 
‘when she knows your pleasure, will.she not conform to it?? 
Before my friend had time to answer this question, a negative 
was clearly and distinctly uttered from another quarter. It 


did not come from one side or the other, from before us or 


behind? Whence, then, did it come ? By whose organs was 


it fashioned ? 

“If any uncertainty had existed with regard to these par- 
ticulars it would have been removed by a deliberate and 
equally distinct repetition of the same monosyllable, ‘ No.’ 


~The voice was my sister’s. It appeared to come from the 


roof. I started from my seat.. ‘ Catharine,’ exclaimed TI, 
“where are you?’ No answer was returned. I searched the. 
room and the area before it, but in vain. Your brother was 
motionless in his seat. I returned to him, and placed myself 
again by his side. My astonishment was not less than his. 

“* Well,’ said he, at length, ‘ what think you of this? This 
is the self-same voice which I formerly heard: you are now 
convinced that my ears were well informed.’ 

“<* Yes,’ said. I, ‘this; ityis plain, is no fiction of the fancy.’ 


_ We again sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. A recol- 


lection of the hour, and of the length of our absence, made 
me at last propose to return. We rose up for this purpose. 
In doing this, my mind reverted to the contemplation of my 
own condition, ‘ Yes,’ said I, aloud, but without particularly 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 71 
addressing myself to Wieland, ‘my resolution is taken. I 
cannot hope to prevail with my friends to accompany me. 
They may doze away their days on the banks of Schuylkill; 
but, as to me, I go in the next yessel ; I will fly to her pres- 
ence and demand the reason of this extraordinary silence.’ 

“I had scarcely finished the sentence when the same mys- 
terious voice exclaimed, ‘ You shall not go. The seal of death 
is on her lips. Her silence is the silence of the tomb.’ Think 
of the effects which accents like these must have had upon 
me. I shuddered as I listened. As soon as I recovered from 
my first amazement, ‘ Who is it that speaks?’ said I; ‘whence 
did you procure these dismal tidings?’ I did not wait long 
for an answer. ‘From a source that cannot fail. Be satis- 
fied, She is dead.’ You may justly be surprised that, in the 
circumstances in which I heard the tidings, and notwith- 
standing the mystery which environed him by whom they 
were imparted, I could give an undivided attention to the 
facts which were the subject of our dialogue. I eagerly in- 
quired, when and where did she die? What was the cause 
of her death? Was her death absolutely certain? An answer 
was returned only to the last of these questions ; ‘ Yes,’ was 
pronounced by the same voice ; but it now sounded from a 
ereater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return 

made to my subsequent interrogatories. 

“Tt was my sister’s voice; but it could not be uttered by 
her ; and yet, if not by her = whom was it uttered? When 
we returned hither and discovered you together, the doubt 
that had previously existed was removed. It was manifest 
that the intimation came not from her. Yet, if not from her, 
from whom could it come? Are the circumstances attend- 
ing the imparting of this news proof that the tidings are 
true? God forbid that they should be true!” 

Here Pleyel sank into anxious silence, and gave me leisure 
to ruminate on this inexplicable event. Iam ata loss to de- 
scribe the sensations that affected me. Iam not fearful of 
shadows. ‘The tales of apparitions and enchantments did not 


WIELAND ; 


possess that power over my belief which could even render 
them interesting. I saw nothing in them but ignorance 
and folly, and was a stranger even to that terror which is 
pleasing. But this incident- was different from any that I 
had ever before known. Here were proofs of a sensible and 
intelligent existence which could not be denied. Here was 
information obtained and imparted by means “unquestion- 
ably superhuman. _ 

That there are conscious beings besides ourselves .in 


existence, whose modes of activity and information sur- 


pass our own, can scarcely be denied. Is there a elimpse 

afforded us into a world of these superior beings? My heart 
was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so swelling 
a thought. An awe, the sweetest and most solemn that in- 


agination can conceive, pervaded my whole frame. It for-. 
sook me not when I parted from Pleyel and retired to my _ 


chamber. An impulse was given to my spirits utterly incom- 
patible with sleep. I passed the night wakeful and full of 
meditation. I was impressed with the belief of mysterious 
but not of malignant agency. Hitherto nothing had occurred 
to persuade me that this airy minister was busy to ev il rather 
than to good purposes. On the contrary, the idea of supe- 
rior virtue had always been associated in my mind with that 
of superior power. The warnings that had thus been heard 
appeared to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. 


My brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending — 
the hill, He was told that danger lurked in his path, and his — 
obedience to the intimation had perhaps saved him from a ~~ 


destiny similar to that of my father. 


Pieyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, ane 
from the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the 


game interposition. It had assured him of the death of his 
Theresa. 
This woman was, then, dead. A sonnvnitign of the tid- 


ings, if true, would speedily arrive. Was this confirmation — 
to be deprecated or desired? By her death the tie that ate 


THE TRANSFORMATION. "3% 


tached him to Europe was taken away. Henceforward every 
motive would combine to retain him in his native country, 


and we were rescued from the deep regrets that would ac-- 


company his hopeless absence from us. -Propitious was the 
spirit that imparted these tidings. Propitious he would per- 
haps have been, if he had been instrumental in producing as 
well as in communicating the tidings of her death. Propi- 
tious to us, the friends of Pleyel, to whom has thereby been 


secured the enjoyment of his society ; and not unpropitious. 


to himself; for, though this object of his love be snatched 
away is there not another who is able and willing to console 
him for her loss? | 

Twenty days after this another vessel arrived from the 
same port. In this interval, Pleyel for the most part es- 
tranged himself from his old companions. He was become 
the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief. His walks were 
limited to the bank of the Delaware. This bank is an arti- 
ficial one. Seeds and the river are on one side, and a watery 
marsh on the other, in that part which bounded his lands, and 
which extended from the mouth of Hollander’s Creek to that 
of Schuylkill. No scene can be imagined Jess enticing to a 
lover of the picturesque than this. The shore is deformed 
with mud and encumbered with a forest of reeds. The fields 
in most seasons are mire; but, when they afford a firm 
footing, the ditches by which they are bounded and _ inter- 
sected are mantled with stagnatine green, and emit the most 
“noxious exhalations. Healtl: is no less a stranger to those 
seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure to be ac- 
companied with agues and bilious remittents. 

The scenes which environed our dwellings at Mettingen 
constituted the reverse of this. Schuylkill was here a pure 
and translucid current broken into wild and ceaseless music 
by rocky points, murmuring on a sandy margin, and reflect- 
‘ing on its surface banks of all varieties of height and de- 
grees of declivity. These banks were checkered by patches 


\ 


of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and . 


te are Oil 7 ee Pr” oe) eS fale eeltigs aan ev 
ee eee Raa ats tea ale a Oi Pro ; 
A 1 ES ES Nay ee a dei bo3 RON he y eed 


74 WIELAND ; OR, 


crowned by copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence 
of orchards, which at this season were in blossom and were 
prodigal of odors. The ground which receded from the 
viver was scooped into valleys and dales. Its beauties were 
enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who be- 
decked this exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings with 
every species of vegetable ornament, from the giant arms of 
the oak to the clustering tendrils of the honeysuckle. 

To screen. him from the unwholesome airs of his own resi- 
dence, it had been proposed to Pleyel to spend the months of 
spring with us. He had apparently acquiesced in this pro- 


posal ; but the late event induced him to change his purpose. . 


He was only to be seen by visiting him in lis retirements. 
His egayety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in 
eagerness to procure tidings from Saxony. I have men- 
tioned the arrival of another vessel from the Elbe. He 
descried her early one morning as he was passing along the 
skirt of the river. “She was easily recognized, being the 
ship in which he had performed his first voyage to 
Germany. He immediately went on board, but found no 
letters directed to him. This omission was in some degree 
compensated by meeting an old acquaintance among the pas- 
seneers, who had till lately been a resident of Leipsic. This 
person put anend to all suspense respecting the fate of 
Theresa, by relating the particulars of her death and funeral. 

Thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. No 
longer devoured by suspense, the grief of Pleyel was not long 
in yielding to the influence of society. He gave himself up 
once more to our. company. His vivacity had indeed been 
damped; but even in this respect he was a more acceptable 
companion than formerly, since his seriousness was neither 
uncommunicative nor sullen. | 

These incidents for a time occupied all our thoughts. In 
me they produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and 
more speedily than in the case of my friends were intermixed 
with other topics. My brother was particularly affected by 


* 


: ane was easy td perceive that most of his rrodiiatrons 
were ietired from this source. To this was to be ascribed 
a design in which his pen was at this period engaged, of col- noe: 
-lecting and investigating the facts which relate to that mys- o.. 
terious personage, the Deemon of Socrates. ss 
My brother’s skill in Greek and Roman learning Was ex- e 
S beited by that of few, and no doubt the world would have ac- _ . 
_ cepted a treatise upon this subject from his hand with avidity ; | 
but, alas! this and every other scheme of felicity and honor 
were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless extermination. 


the most turbulent sensations are connecfed. % ‘It is with a 


delineation of thy character? How shall I detail the means / — 
which rendered the secrecy of thy purposes unfathomable? — 


CHAPTER VI. 


I now come to the mention of a person with gvhose name 


shuddering reluctance that I begin to perceive the difficulty of 
the task which I have undertaken ; but it would be weakness __ 
to shrink from it. My blood is congealed and my fingers are A 
palsied when I call up this image. Shame upon my cowardly 
and infirm heart! Hitherto I have proceeded with some 
degree of composure ; but now I must pause. I mean not 
that dire remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffle ~ 
my design; but this weakness cannot be immediately con- — 
quered. I must desist for a little while. 
~ T have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have aac 
strength enough to proceed. Yet have I not projected a task 
beyond my power to execute? Ifthus, on the very threshold — 
of the scene, my knees falter and I sink, how shall I support 
myself when I rush into the midst of horrors such as no heart 
has hitherto conceived or tongue related? Isicken and recoil ~ 
at the prospect; and yet my irresolution is momentary. .I _ 
have not formed this design upon slight grounds’; and though — 
I may at times pause and hesitate I will not be finally diverted 
from it. ; er 
And thou, most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms 
shall I describe thee? What words are adequate to the just — 


but Iwill not anticipate. ‘Let me recover, if possible, a sober — 
strain. Let me keep down the flood of passion that would — 
render me precipitate or powerless. Let me alte the agonleae 


THE TRANSE FORMAT TION. og 1 beter e 


 theeas a ee of no Naito ite ntes ~ Let me tear myself 
from contemplation of the evils of which it is but too certain 
that thou wast the author, and limit my view to those 
~ harmless appearances which attended thy entranee on the 
stage. 

One sunny afternoon = was standing in the door of my 
house, when I marked a person passing close to the edge of 
the bank that was in front. His pace was a careless and lin- 
veering one, and had none of that gracefulness and ease which 
distinguish & person with certain advantages of education 
from a clown. His gait was rustic and awkward. His form was 
‘ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, 
chest sunken, his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, 
supported by long and lank legs, were the ingredients of his 

frame. His garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. A 
slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick oray 
cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue 
worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs and deeply 
discolored by dust, which brush had never disturbed, consti- 
tuted his dress. ; 

There was nothing femesk able; in these appearances : they 
were frequently to be met with on the road and in the har- 
vest-field. I cannot tell why I gazed upon them on this oe- 
-easion with more than ordinary attention, unless it were that 
such figures were seldom seen by me except on the road or 

field. This lawn was only traversed by men whose views were « 
directed to the pleasures of the ae or the grandeur of the 
scenery. : 

He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine 
the prospect more Hei beritaly, but never turning his eye 
toward’ the house, so as to allow me a view of his counte- 
nance, Presently he entered a copse at a small distance, and 
disappeared. My eye followed him while he remained in sieht, 

wee his image remained for any duration in my fancy after hig 


i departure, it was because no other object occured sufficient to 


Be expel it 


AF el a | - pf ge Te Pak la ok 
Ba Re he sp Re oe es 
eS - > 


1 ee ap ad De 
; PEST GE 4 His hnd tebtacs 
= ea ¥ 


a Se | 


AE 


ieee WIELAND; OR, : 


I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely and 
by fits contemplating the image of this wanderer, and draw- 
ing from outward appearances those inferences, with respect to ; 
the intellectual history of this person, which experience affords eu 
us. I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists be- 
tween ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged 
myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progres- 
sive knowledge in dissolving the alliance and embodying the 
dreams of the poets. Iasked why the plow and the hoe might 
not become the trade of every human being, and how this 
trade might be made conducive to or at ihaet consistent with 
acquisition of wisdom and eloquence. 

Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen 
to perform some household office. I had usually but one 
servant, and she was a girl about my own age. I was busy 
near the chimney, and she was employed near the door of 
the apartment, when some one knocked. The door was 
opened by her, and she was immediately addressed with, 
“Pr’ythee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with 
a glass of buttermilk?” She answered that there was none 
in the house. “Ay, but there is some in the dairy yonder. 
Thou knowest as well as I, though Hermes never taught 
thee, that, though every dairy be a house, every house is 
not a dairy.” To this speech, though she understood only 
a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances that she 
had none to give. ‘“ Well, then,” rejoined the stranger, “for 
charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water.” 
Lhe girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. “Nay, 
give me the cup and suffer me to help myself. Neither .° 
manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the maw of — ~ 
carrion-crows if I laid this task upon thee.” She gave him = 
the cup and he turned to go to the spring. . 

I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered a 
by the person without affected me as somewhat singular ; & 
but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was the tone 2 
that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My brother's 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 79 


voice and Pleyel’s were musical and energetic. I had fondly 
imagined that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. 
Now my mistake was detected. I cannot pretend to com- 
municate the impression that was made upon me by these 
accents, or to depict the degree in which force and sweet- 
ness were blended in them. They were articulated with a 
distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But 
this was not all. The voice was not only mellifluent and 
clear, but the emphasis was so just, and the modulation so 
impassioned, that it seemed as if a heart of stone could -not 
fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an emotion 
altogether involuntary and incontrollable. When he uttered 
the words, “for charity’s sweet sake,” I dropped the cloth 
that I held in my hand; my heart overflowed with sympathy 
and my eyes with unbidden tears. 

This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. 
The importance of these circumstances will be manifested 
in the sequel. The manner in which I was affected on this 
Oceasion was, to my own apprehension, a subject of astonish- 
ment. The tones were indeed such as I never heard before; 
but that they should in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in 
tears will not easily be believed by others and can scarcely 
be comprehended by myself. 

It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisi- 
five as to the person and demeanor of our visitant. After 
a moment's pause I stepped to the door and looked after 
him. Judge my surprise when I beheld the self-same figure 
_ that had appeared a half-hour before upon the bank. My 
fancy had conjured up a very different image. A form and 
attitude and garb were instantly created worthy to accom- 
‘pany such elocution, but this person was, in all visible 
respects, the reverse of this phantom. Strange as it may 
seem, I could not speedily reconcile myself to this disap- 
pointment. Instead of returning to my employment, I threw 
_ myself in a chair that was iced opposite the door, and sank 
into a fit of musing. 


hr en 
P ee 1th ea 


80 WIELAND; OR, 


My attention was in a few minutes recalled by the — 
stranger, who returned with the empty cup in his hand. a 
I had not thought of the circumstance, or should certainly 
have chosen a different seat. He no sooner showed himself, 
than a confused sense of impropriety, added to the sudden- ‘a 
ness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, T° 
had made no preparation, threw me into a state of most 
painful embarrassment. He brought with him a placid 
brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me than i 
his face was as glowinegly suffused as my own. He placed 
the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired. fe 

It was some time before I could recover my wonted com- e. 


posure. I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. ; 
The impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His ay 
cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead a 


overshadowed by coarse, strageling hairs, his teeth large and 
irregular, though sound and brilhantly white, and his chin i 


discolored by a tetter. . His skin was of coarse grain and sal- ; 
low hue. Every feature was wide of beauty, and the outline 2 
of his face reminded you of an inverted cone. a 
And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it 2 
to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the a 
midst of hageardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and po- b: 
es 


tent, and something in the rest of his features which 1b 
would be in vain to describe, but which served to betoken 3 
a mind of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the 
portrait. This, in the effects which immediately flowed from 
it, I count among the most extraordinary incidents of my 
life. This face, seen for 2 moment, continued for hours to” 
occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other ’ 
image. I had proposed to spend the evening with my brother, 
but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch 
upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my hand 
was aided by any peculiar inspiration, or I was deceived by 
my own fond conceptions, this portrait, though hastily exe- 
cuted, appeared unexceptionable to my own taste. - | 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 68 

I placed it at all distances and in all lights; my eyes were 
riveted upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness 
and in contemplation of this picture. So flexible, and yet so 
stubborn, is the human mind! So obedient to impulses the 
most transient and brief, and yet so unalterably observant of 
the direction which is given toit! How little did I then fore- 
see the termination of that chain of which this may be re- 
garded as the first link! 

Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of rain 
fell during the whole day, attended with incessant thunder, 
which reverberated in stunning echoes from the opposite de- 
clivity. The inclemency of the air would not allow me to 
walk out. I had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apart- 
ment. I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, 
whose attractions time had rather enhanced than diminished. 
I laid aside my usual occupations, and, seating myself at a 
window, consumed the day in alternately looking out upon 
the storm and gazing at the picture which lay upon a table 
before me. You will perhaps deem this conduct somewhat 
sineular and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. I 
am not aware of any such peculiarities. I can account for my 
devotion to this image no otherwise than by supposing that 
its properties were rare and prodigious. Perhaps you will 
suspect that such were the first inroads of a passion incident 
to every female heart, and which frequently gains a footing 
‘by means even more slight and more improbable than these. 
I shall not controvert the reasonableness of the suspicion, but 
leave you at liberty to draw trom my narrative what conclu- 
sions you please. 

Night at length returned, and the storm ceased. The air 
was once more clear and calm and bore an affecting contrast 
to that uproar of the elements by which it had been pre- 
ceded. _ I spent the darksome hours as I spent the day, con- 
templative and seated at the window. Why was my mind 
absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? Why did my 
bosom heave with sighs and my eyes overflow with tears? 


wR Pe es 


89 WIELAND; OR, 


Was the tempest that had just passed a signal of the ruin 
which impended over me? My soul fondly dwelt upon the 
images of my brother and his children; yet they only in- 
creased the mournfulness.of my contemplations. The smiles 
of the charming babes were as bland as formerly. The same 
dignity sat on the brow of their father, and yet I thought of 
them withanguish. Something whispered that the happiness 
we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. Death 
must happen to all. Whether our felicity was to be sub- 
verted by it to-morrow, or whether it was ordained that we 
should lay down our heads full of years and of honor, was a 
question that no human being could solve. At other times 
these ideas seldom intruded. Ieither forbore to reflect upon 
the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection was 
mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror ; but now the 
uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual 
and alleviating accompaniments. Isaid to myself, We must 
die. Sooner or later we must disappear forever from the 
face of the earth. Whatever be the links that hold us to life 
they must be broken. This scene of existence is, in all its 
parts, calamitous. The greater number is oppressed with 
immediate evils, and those the tide of whose fortune is full, 
how small is their portion of enjoyment, since they know that 
it will terminate! 

_¥For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance, in 
these gloomy thoughts; but at length the dejection which 
they produced became insupportably painful. I endeavored 
to dissipate it with music. I had all my erandfather’s melo- 
dy as well as poetry by rote. I now lighted by chance on a 
ballad which commemorated the fate of a German cavalier 
who fell at the siege of Nice under Godfrey of Bouillon. My 
choice was unfortunate; for the scenes of.violence and car- 
nage which were here wildly but forcibly portrayed only sug- 
gested to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war. 


I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind was_ 


thronged by vivid but confused images, and no effort that I 


wt 


THE TRANSFORMATION, cen ae 


made was sufficient to drive them away. In this situation I 
heard the clock, which hung in the room, give the signal for 
twelve. It was the same instrument which formerly hung 
in my father’s chamber, and which, on account of it being his 
workmanship, was regarded by every one of our family with 
veneration. It had fallen to me in the division of his proper- 
ty, and was placed in this asylum. The sound awakened a 
series of reflections respecting his death. I was not allowed 
to pursue them, for scarcely had the vibrations ceased when 
my attention was attracted by a whisper, which, at first, ap- 
peared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my 
ear. ‘ 

No wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. In 
the first impulse of my terror I uttered a slight scream and 
shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. In a moment, how- 
ever, I recovered from ‘my trepidation. I was habitually in- 
different to all the causes of fear by which the majority are 
afflicted. I entertained no apprehension of either ghosts or 
robbers. Our security had never been molested by either, 
and I made use of no means to prevent or counterwork their 
machinations. My tranquillity on this occasion was quickly 
retrieved. The whisper evidently proceeded from one who 
was posted at my bedside. The first idea that suggested it- 
self was that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me 
as a servant. Perhaps somewhat had alarmed her, or she was 
sick, and had come to request my assistance. By whispering 
in my ear she intended to rouse without alarming me. 

Full of this persuasion, I called. ‘‘Judith,” said I, ‘‘is it 
you? ‘What do you want? Is there anything the matter 
with you?” No answer was returned. I repeated my in- 
quiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the atmosphere, 
and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. I with- 
drew the curtain, and, leaning my head on my elbow, I 
listened with the deepest attention to catch some new sound. 
Meanwhile, I ran over in my thoughts every circumstance 
that could assist my conjectures. a 


84 : WIELAND; OR, 


My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two 
stories. In each story were two rooms, separated by an en- 
try, or middle passage, with which they communicated by 
opposite doors. The passage on the lower story had doors 
at the two ends, and a staircase. Windows answered to the 
doors on the upper story. Annexed to this, on the eastern 
side, were wines, divided in like manner into an upper and. 
lower room ; one of them comprised a kitchen, and chamber 
above it for the servant, and communicated on both stories 
with the parlor adjoining it below and the chamber adjoining 
it above. The opposite wing is of smaller dimensions, the_ 
rooms not being above eight feet square. ‘The lower of these 
was used as a depository of household implements ; the upper 
was a closet in which I deposited my books and papers. 
They had but one inlet, which was from the room adjoining. 
There was no window in the lower one, and in the upper a 
small aperture, which communicated light and air but would 
scarcely admit the body. The door which led into this was 
close to my bed-head, and was always locked but when I my- 
self was within. The avenues below were accustomed to be 
closed and bolted at nights. 

The maid was my only companion; and she could not 
reach my chamber without previously passing through the 
opposite chamber and the middle passage, of which, however, 
the doors were usually unfastened. If she had occasioned 
this noise she would have answered my repeated calls. No 
other conclusion, therefore, was left me but that I had mis- 
taken the sounds, and that my imagination had transformed - 
some casual noise into the voice of a human creature. Satis- 
fied with this solution, I was preparing to relinquish my 
listening attitude when my ear was again saluted with a new 
and yet louder whispering. It appeared, as before, to issue 
from lips that touched my pillow. A second effort of atten- 
tion, however, clearly showed me that the sounds issued from 
within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight 
inches from my pillow. | 


THE TRANSFORMATION. ay 


’ This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement 
than the former. I started, but gave no audible token of 
alarm. J was so much mistress of my feelings as to continue 
listening to what should be said. The whisper was distinct, 
hoarse, and uttered so as to show that the speaker was de- 
sirous of being. heard by some one near, but, at. the same 
time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other :— 

“Stop ! stop, I say, madman as you are! there are better 
means than that. Curse upon your rashness! ‘There is no 
need to shoot,” | 

Such were the words uttered, in a tone of eagerness and 
anger, within so small a distance of my pillow. What con- 
struction could I put upon them? My heart began to palpi- 
tate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently, an- 
other voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering in ~ 
answer, “ Why not? I will draw a trigger in this business ; 
but perdition be my lot if I do more!” To this the first 
voice returned, in a tone which rage had heightened in a 
small degree above a whisper, “‘ Coward ! stand aside, and see 
me doit. I will grasp her throat; I will do her business in 
an instant; she shall not have time so much as to groan.” 
What wonder that I was petrified by sounds so dreadful! 
Murderers lurked in my closet. They were planning the 
means of my destruction. One resolved to shoot, and the 
other menaced suffocation. Their means being chosen, they 
would forthwith break the door. Flight instantly suggested it- 
- self as most eligible in circumstances so perilous. I deliberated 
not a moment ; but, fear adding wings to my speed, I leaped 
out of bed, and, scantily robed as I was, rushed out of the 
chamber, down stairs, and into the open air. I can hardly 
recollect the process of turning keys and withdrawing bolts. 
My terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical im- 
pulse. I stopped not till I reached my brother’s door. I had 
not gained the threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of 
my emotions and by my speed, I sank down in a fit. . 

How long I remained in this situation [know not. When 


86 | WIELAND; OR, 


ae) We: 8 I CO TO Ne, 9s te ae et See Lat eed. te Cte ak ON Rh ee 0 ony eee Rt ee Ww Be er aa ee 
ae SRE SO aye guy Ret Seana AVA Se NET Be Malin g eae ied VO NEST geen calf EI 
; . pA R25 ‘ , 7 A Macrae Se ah 
, © . L + REL pi ite, Tay, aes * , 


ae away, 


é 


T recovered I found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded 


by my sister and her female servants. I was astonished at the 
scene before me, but gradually recovered the recollection of 
what had happened. I answered their importunate inquiries 
as well as I was able. My brother and Pleyel, whom the 
storm of the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing 
themselves of every particular, proceeded with lights and 
weapons to my deserted habitation. They entered my cham- 
ber and my closet, and found everything in its proper place 
and customary order. The door of the closet was locked, and 
appeared not to have been opened in my absence. They 
went to Judith’s apartment. They found her asleep and in 
safety. Pleyel’s caution induced him to forbear alarming the 
girl, and, finding her wholly ignorant of what had passed 
they directed her to return to her chamber. They then 
fastened the doors and returned. 

My friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a 
dream. That persons should be actually immured in this 
closet, to which, in the circumstances of the time, access 
from without or within was apparently impossible, they could 
not seriously believe. That any human beings had intended 
murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was in- 
credible ; but that no such design had been formed was 
evident from the security in which the furniture of the house 
and the closet remained. 

I revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. 
My senses assured me of the truth of them ; and yet their ab- 
ruptness and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat in- 
eredulous. The adventure had made a deep impression on my 
fancy ; and it was not till after a week’s abode at my brother’s 
that [resolved to resume the possession of my own dwelling. 

There was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteri- 
ousness of this event. After my recovery it was obvious to 
inquire by what means the attention of the family had been 
drawn to my situation. I had fallen before I had reached the 
threshold or was able to give any signal. My brother related 


a 


‘THE TRANSFORMATION. 


that, while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself was 
awake, in consequence of. some sheht indisposition, and lay, 
according to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. Sud- 
denly the silence, which was remarkably profound, was broken 
by a voice of most piercing shrillness, that seemed to be uttered 
by one in the hall below his chamber. “Awake! arise!” if 
exclaimed ; “ hasten to succor one that is dying at your door!” 

This summons was effectual. There was no one in the 
house who was not roused by it. Pleyel was the first to obey, 
and my brother overtook him before he reached the hall. 
What was the general astonishment when your friend was 
discovered stretched upon the grass before the door, pale, 
ehastly, and with every mark of death ! 

This was the third instance of a voice exerted for the benefit 
of this little community. The agent was no less inscrutable 
in this than in the former case. When I ruminated upon 
these events, my soul was suspended in wonder and awe. 
Was I really deceived in imagining that I heard the closet 
conversation? I was no longer at liberty to question the 
reality of those accents which had formerly recalled my 
brother from the hill, which had imparted tidings of the 
death of the German lady to Pleyel, and which had lately 
summoned them to my assistance. 

But how was I to regard this midnight conversation ? 
Hoarse and manlike voices conferring on the means of death, 
so near my bed; and at such an hour! How had my ancient 
security vanished! That dwelling which had hitherto been 
an inviolate asylum was now beset with danger to my life. 
That solitude formerly so dear to me could no longer be 
endured. Pleyel, who had consented to reside with us during 
the months of spring, lodged in the vacant chamber, in order 
to quiet my alarms. He treated my fears with ridicule, and 
in a short time very shght traces of them remained ; but, as 
it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were 
passed at my hoxvse or at my brother's, this arrangement gave 
general satisfaction. Re Pie 


CHAPTER. VII. 


I wiz enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures 


which thege incidents occasioned. After all our efforts, we 
came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which they were in- 


volved ; and time, instead of facilitating a solution, only ac- 


cumulated our doubts, 

In the midst of thoughts excited by these events I was not 
unmindful of my interview with the stranger. I related the 
particulars and showed the portrait to my friends. Pleyel 
recollected to have met with a figure resembling my deserip- 
tion in the city ; but neither his face nor garb made the same 


impression upon him that it made upon me. It wasa hint to_ 


rally me upon my prepossessions, and to amuse us with a 
thousand ludicrous anecdotes which he had collected in his 


travels. He made no scruple to charge me with being in . 


love, and threatened to inform the swain, when he met him, 
of his good fortune. ¢ | 

Pleyel’s temper made him susceptible of no durable im- 
pressions. His conversation was occasionally visited by 
eleams of his ancient vivacity ; but, though his impetuosity 
was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing to dread from 
his malice. I had no fear that my character or dignity would 
suffer in his hands, and was not heartily displeased when he 
declared his intention of profiting by his first meeting with 
the stranger to introduce him to our acquaintance. 


Some weeks after this I had spent a toilsome day, and, as 


the sun declined, found myself disposed to seek relief in a 
walk. The river bank is, at this part of it and for some con- 


siderable space upward, so rugged and steep as not to be 


easily descended. In a recess of this declivity, near the 


Naw 


 “‘ THA TRANSFORMATION. 89 


southern verse of my little demesne, was placed a slight build- 
ing, with seats and lattices. From’a crevice of the rock to 
which this edifice was attached there burst forth a stream of 
the purest water, which, leaping from ledge to ledge for the 
space of sixty feet, produced a freshness in the air, and a 
murmur, the most delicious and soothing imaginable. These, 
added to the odors of the cedars which embowered it, and of 
the honeysuckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered 
this my favorite retreat in summer. 

On this occasion I repaired hither. My spirits drooped 
through the fatigue of long attention, and I threw myself upon 
a bench, in a state, both mentally and personally, of the ut- 
most supineness. The lulling sounds of the waterfall, the 
fragrance, and the dusk, combined to becalm my spirits, and, 
in a short time, to sink me into sleep. Hither the uneasiness 
of my posture, or some slight indisposition, molested my re- 
pose with dreams of no cheerful hue. After various inco- 
herences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, I at length 
imagined myself walking, in the evening twilight, to my 
brother’s habitation. A pit, methought, had been dug in the 

_ path I had taken, of which I was not aware. As I carelessly 
pursued my walk I thought I saw my brother standing at | 
some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make 
haste. He stood on the opposite edge of the gulf. I mended 
my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this 
abyss, had not some one from behind caught suddenly my 
arm, and exclaimed, in a voice of eagerness and terror, | 
“Hold! hold!” : 

The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself, at the next 
moment, standing on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest 
darkness. Images so terrific and forcible disabled me for a 
time from distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness, and 
withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. My 
first panic was succeeded by the perturbations of surprise to 
find myself alone in the open air and immersed in so deep a - 
gloom. I slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon, 


90 WIELAND ; OR, 


and how I came hither. I could not estimate the time, but 
saw the propriety of returning with speed to the house. My 
faculties were still too confused, and the darkness too intense, 
to allow me immediately to find my way up the steep. I sat 
down, therefore, to recover myself, and reflect upon my situ- 
ation. 

This was no sooner done than a low voice was heard from 
behind the lattice, on the side where I sat. Between the 
rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough to admit a 
human body, yet in this chasm’ he that. spoke appeared to 
be stationed. ‘‘ Attend! attend! but be not terrified.” 

I started, and exclaimed, ‘‘Good heavens! what is that? 
Who are you ?” 

‘A friend ; one come not to injure but to save you: fear 


” 


nothing. 


This voice was immediately recognized to be the same with 


one of those which I had heard in the closet; it was the 
voice of him who had proposed to shoot rather than to 
strangle his victim. My terror made me at once mute and 
motionless. He continued, “I leagued to murder you. I 
repent. Mark my bidding, and be safe. Avoid this spot. 
The snares of death encompass it. Elsewhere danger will be 
distant ; but this spot, shun it as you value your life. Mark 
me further: profit by this warning, but divulge it not. Ifa 
syllable of what has passed escape you, your doom is sealed. 
Remember your father, and be faithful.” 

Here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with dis- 
may. {I was fraught with the persuasion that during every 
moment I remained here my life was endangered; but I 
could not take a step without hazard of falling to the bottom 
of the precipice. The path leading to the summit was short 


but rugged and intricate. Even starlight was excluded by~ 
the umbrage, and not the faintest gleam was afforded to 


guide my steps. What should I do? To depart or remain 
was equally and eminently perilous. | 


In this state of uncertainty I perceived a ray ies across the 


s 


~ 


PER TRANSFORMATION. ~ %.. 94 
eloom and disappear. Another succeeded which was stronger 
and remained for a passing moment. It glittered on the 
shrubs that were scattered at the entrance, and gleam con- 
tinued to succeed gleam for a few seconds, till they finally 
gave place to unintermitted darkness. 

The first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors | 
in my mind ; destruction impended over this spot ; the voice 
whichI had lately heard had warned me to retire, and: had 
menaced me with the fate of my father if Irefused. I was 
desirous but unable to obey ; these gleams were such as pre- 
luded the stroke by which he fell; the hour, perhaps, was the 
same. I shuddered as if I had beheld suspended over me the 
exterminating sword. 

Presently a new and stronger illumination burst through 


the lattice on the right hand, and a voice from the edge of the 


precipice above called out my name. It was Pleyel. Joyfully 
did I recognize his accents ; but such was the tumult of my 
thoughts that I had not power to answer him till he had 
frequently repeated his summons. I hurried at length from 
the fatal spot, and, directed by the lantern which he bore, as- 
cended the hill. | 
Pale and breathless, 1t was with difficulty I could support 
myself. He anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright 
and the motive of my unusual absence. He had returned 
from my brothier’s at a late hour, and wasinformed by Judith 
that I had walked out before sunset and had not yet re- 
turned. This intelligence was somewhat alarming. He 
waited some time ; but my absence continuing, he had set 
out in search of me. He had explored the neighborhood: 
with the utmost care, but receiving no tidings of me he was 


‘preparing to acquaint my brother with this circumstance 


when he recollected the summer-house on the bank and con- 
ceived it possible that some accident had detained me there. 


He again inquired into the cause of this detention, and of 


that confusion and dismay which my looks testified. | 
I told him that I had strolled hither in the afternoon, that 


OE ae eas OR 


sleep had overtaken me as I sat, and that I had awakened a | 
few minutes before his arrival. Icould tell himno more. In | 
the present impetuosity of my thoughts I was almost dubious 
whether the pit into which my brother had endeavored to 
entice me and the voice that talked through the lattice, were 3 
not parts of the same dream. I remembered, likewise, the 
charge of secrecy, and the penalty denounced if I should 
rashly divulge what I had heard. For these reasons I was 
silent on that subject, and, shutting myself in my chamber, 
delivered myself up to contemplation. 

What I have related will, no doubt, appear to you a 
fable. You will believe that calamity has subverted my rea- 
son, and that Lam amusing you with the chimeras of my brain 
instead of facts that have really happened. I shall not be 
surprised or offended if these be your suspicions. I know 
not, indeed, how you can deny them admission. For, if to 
me, the immediate witness, they were fertile of perplexity 
and doubt, how must they affect another to whom they are 
recommended only by my testimony? It was only by subse- 
quent events that I was fully and incontestably assured of the 
veracity of my senses. 

Meanwhile, what was I to think? JI had been assured that 
a design had been formed against my life. The ruffians had 
leagued to murderme. Whom had I offended? Who was 
there, with whom I had ever maintained intercourse, who was fi 


capable of harboring such atrocious purposes ? ea 
My temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. My 
heart was touched with sympathy for the children of misfort- % 


une. But this sympathy was not a barren sentiment. My 
purse, scanty as it was, was ever open and my hands ever 
active to relieve distress. Many were the wretches whom my 
_ personal exertions had extricated from want and disease, and : 
who rewarded me with their gratitude. There was no face 
which lowered at my approach, and no lips which uttered im- | 
-precations in my hearing. On the contrary, there was none, a 
over whose fate I had exerted any influence or to whom I was 


ERY Suc 
CR ada 


oy 
‘ Pi IU Staak 


pun TRANSFORMATION. = =——S—«*SB 


known by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles and 
dismiss me with proofs of veneration ; yet did not my senses 
assure me that a plot was laid against my life 

Tam not destitute of courage. I have shown myself delib- 
erative and calm in the midst of peril. I have hazarded my 
own life for the preservation of another, but now was I con- 
fused and panic-struck. I have not lived so as to fear death ; 
yet to perish by an unseen and secret stroke, to be mangled 
by the knife of an assassin, was a thought at which I shud- 
dered. What had I done to deserve to be made the victim of 
malignant passions ? 

But soft! was I not assured that my life was safe in all 
places but one? And why was the treason limited to take ef- 
fect inthis spot? I was everywhere equally defenceless. My 
house and chamber were at all times accessible. Danger still 
impended over me; the bloody purpose was still entertained, 
but the hand that was to execute it was powerless in all places 
but one. 

Here I had remained for the last four or five hours, with- 
out the means of resistance or defence; yet I had not been at- 
tacked. A human being was at hand, who was conscious of 
- my presence, and warned me hereafter to avoid this retreat. 
His voice was not absolutely new, but had I never heard it but 
once before? But why did he prohibit me from relating this 
incident to others, and what species of death will be awarded 
if I disobey ? 

He talked of my father. He intimated that disclosure 
would pull upon my head the same destruction. Was, then, the 
death of my father, portentous and inexplicable as it was, the 
consequence of human machinations? It should seem that 
this being is apprised of the true nature of this event, and is 
conscious of the means that led to it. Whether it shall like- 
wise fall upon me depends upon the observance of silence. 
Was it the infraction of a similar command that brought so 
horrible a penalty upon my father ? 

Such were the reflections that haunted me during the night, 


eS p> igt 7 =P ee yd 5, ee ae ee OR Lae ee > Poa et OS see) oe re 7 Py a he “abet \4) 
3 ws an f as = , ‘ > Mi Bh eg Te et +9 ~ ef pia"? le dog ” 
4 ae, 7 a re ia a ee PA Fy ae g Bea atest ie eae De Blefiee te ate. Gare as 


Ppa US AeA acter hy ties Baie 


f > be ¥ ~ 
— sc ‘ ™ r ™“ 


ay 7 WIELAND: OR, Sate gates ee 


and which effectually deprived me of sleep. Next morning, 

at breakfast, Pleyel related an event which my disappearance 

had hindered him from mentioning the night before. Early 

the preceding morning his occasions called him to the city ; 

he had stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour; 

here he met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him 

to be the same whose hasty visit I have mentioned, and whose 

extraordinary visage and tones had so powerfully affected me. 

On an attentive survey, however, he proved, likewise, to be 

one with whom my friend had had some intercourse in Ku- 

rope. This authorized the liberty of accosting him, and after 

some conversation, mindful, as Pleyel said, of the footing 

which this stranger had gained in my heart, he had ventured 

to invite him to Mettingen. The invitation had been cheer- 

fully accepted, and a visit promised on the afternoon of the 
next day. 

This information excited no sober emotions in my breast. 
I was, of course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances 
of their ancient intercourse. When and where had they met? 
What knew he of the life and character of this man ? 

In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that three years 
before he was a traveller in Spain. He had made an excur- 

. sion from Valencia to Murviedro, with a view to inspect the 
remains of Roman magnificence scattered in the environs of 
that town. While traversing the site of the theatre of old 
Sacuntum, he alighted upon this man, seated on a stone, and 
deeply engaged in perusing the work of the deacon Marti. 
A short conversation ensued, which proved the stranger to be 
English. They returned to Valencia together. 

His garb, aspect, and deportment were wholly Spanish. A 
residence of three years in the country, indefatigable atten- 
tion to the language, and a studious conformity with the cus- 
toms of the people, had made him. indistinguishable from a 
native when he chose to assume that character. Pleyel found - 
him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and respect, 
with many eminent merchants in that city. He had embraced 


THE TRANSFORMATION. es 


the Catholic religion, and adopted a Spanish name instead of 
his own, which was Carwin, and devoted himself to the lit- 
erature and religion of his new country. He pursued no 
profession, but subsisted on remittances from England. 
While Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin betrayed no 
aversion to intercourse, and the former found no small at- 
tractions in the society of this new acquaintance. On general 
topics he was highly intelligent and communicative. He had 
visited every corner of Spain, and could furnish the most ac- 
curate details respecting its ancient and present state. On 
topics of religion and of his own history, previous to his 
transformation into a Spaniard, he was invariably silent. You 
could merely gather from his discourse that he was English, 


and that he was well acquainted with the gig eae coun- | 
tries. 


His character excited considerable curiosity in the observer. 
It was not easy to reconcile his conversion to the Romish 
faith with those proofs of knowledge and capacity that were 
exhibited by him on different occasions. A suspicion was 
sometimes admitted that his belief was counterfeited for 


some political purpose. The most careful observation, how- 


ever, produced no discovery. His manners were at all times 
harmless and inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of 
contemplation and seclusion. He appeared to have contracted 
an affection for Pleyel, who was not slow to return it. 

My friend, after a month’s residence in this city, returned 
to France, and, since that period, had heard nothing concern- 
ing Carwin till his appearance at Mettingen. 

On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel’s sreeting with 
a certain distance. and solemnity to which the latter had not 
been accustomed. He had waived noticing the inquiries of 


Pleyel respecting his desertion of Spain, in which he had 


formerly declared. that it was his purpose to spend his life. 


He had assiduously diverted the attention of the latter to in- 


different topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and 


judicious as formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a 


"v; 


oS. cae » Sibes bie re ; eas ope Ape ae Yee ip x ; 


y > 


Ee 
4, 


96 WIELAND ; OR, 


rustic Pleyel was unable to conjecture. Perhaps it might be 
poverty ; perhaps he was swayed by motives which it was his 
interest to conceal, but which were connected with con- 
sequences of the utmost moment. 

Such was the sum of my friend’s information. I was not 
sorry to be left alone during the sreater part of this day. 
Every employment was irksome which did not leave me at 
liberty to meditate. I had now a new subject on which to 
exercise my thoughts. Before evening I should. be ushered 


into his presence, and listen to those tones whose: magical » 


and thrilling power I had already experienced. But with 
what new images would he then be accompanied ? 

Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was an 
Englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a Protestant by educa- 
tion. He had adopted Spain for his country, and had in- 
timated a design to spend his days there, yet now was an 
inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the habiliments 
of a clown! What could have obliterated the impressions of 
his youth and made him abjure his religion and his country ? 
What subsequent events had introduced so total a change in 
his plans? In withdrawing from Spain, had he reverted to 
the religion of his ancestors? or was ib true that his former 
conversion was deceitful, and that bis conduct had been 
swayed by motives which it was prudent to conceal ? 

Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My medita- 
tions were intense ; and, when the series was broken, I be- 
gan to reflect with astonishment on my situation. From the 
death of my parents till the commencement of this year my 
life had been serene and blissful beyond the ordinary portion 
of humanity ; but now my bosom was corroded with anxiety. 
I was visited by dread of unknown dangers, and the future 
was a scene over which clouds rolled and thunders muttered. 
I compared the cause with the effect, and they seemed dis- 
proportioned to each other. All unaware, and in a manner 
which I had no power to explain, I was pushed from my im- 
movable and lofty station and cast upon a sea of troubles. 


5 hat 5 ict ee a 


Greg ee Ee TER RR ca: 
_. - PHE TRANSFORMATION. 97 
T determined to be my brother’s visitant on this evening ; 
yet my resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluc- 
tance. Pleyel’s insinuations that I was in love affected in no 
degree my belief; yet the ‘consciousness that this was the 
opinion of one who would probably be present at our intro- 
duction to each other would excite all that confusion which 
the passion itself is apt to produce. This would confirm him 
in his error and call forth new railleries. His mirth, when 
excited upon this topic, was the source of the bitterest vexa- 
tion. Had he been aware of its influence upon my happiness, 
his temper would not have allowed him to persist; but this 
influence it was my chief endeavor to conceal. That the belief 
of my having bestowed my heart upon another produced in 
my friend none but ludicrous sensations was the true cause 
of my distress; but if this had been dis¢overed by him my 
distress would have been unspeakably aggravated. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit. Carwin 
made one of the company into which I was ushered. Ap- 
pearances were the same as when I before beheld him. Hig 
garb was equally negligent and rustic. I gazed upon his 
countenance with new curiosity. My situation was such as 
to enable me to bestow upon it a deliberate examination. 
Viewed at more leisure, it lost none of its wonderful proper- 
ties. I could not’deny my homage to the intelligence ex- 
pressed in it, but was wholly uncertain whether he were an 
object to be dreaded or adored, and whether his powers had 
been exerted to evil or to good. 

He was sparing in discourse ; but whatever he said was 
pregnant with meaning, and uttered with rectitude of artic- 
ulation and force of emphasis of which I had entertained no 
conception previously to my knowledge of him. Notwith- 
standing the uncouthness of his garb his manners were not 
unpolished. All topics were handled by him with skill, and 
without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no sentiment 
calculated to produce a disadvantageous impression ; on the 
contrary, his observations denoted a mind alive to every 
generous and heroic feeling. They were introduced without 
parade, and accompanied with that degree of earnestness 
which indicates sincerity. 

He parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to 
spend the night here, but readily consented to repeat his 
visit. His visits were frequently repeated. Fach day in- 
troduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with his senti- 
ments, but left us wholly in the dark concerning that about 
which we were most inquisitive. He studiously avoided all 


‘Wl 2D bP ben < 


‘THE TRANSFORMATION. 


mention of his past or his present situation. Even the place 
of lis abode in the city he concealed from us. 

Our sphere in this respect being somewhat limited, and 
the intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably 
great, his deportment was more diligently marked and 
copiously commented on by us than you, perhaps, will think 
the circumstances warranted. Not a gesture, or glance, or ac- 
cent, that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and 
inferences deduced from it. It may well be thought that he 
modelled his behavior by an uncommon standard, when, with 
all our opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were 
able fora long time to gather no satisfactory information. 
He afforded us no ground on which to build even a plausible 
conjecture. 

There is a decree of familiarity which takes place between 
constant associates that justifies the negligence of many rules 
of which, in an earlier period of their intercourse, politeness 
requires the exact observance. Inquiries into our condition 
are allowable when they are prompted bya disinterested con- 
cern for our welfare ; and this solicitude is not only pardon- 
able butmay justly be demanded from those who choose us 
for their companions. This state of things was more slow to 
arrive at on this occasion than on most others, on account of 
the gravity and loftiness of this man’s behavior. 

Pleyel, however, began at leneth to employ regular means 
for this end. He occasionally alluded to the circumstances 
in which they had formerly met, and remarked the incongru- 
ousness between the religion and habits of a Spaniard with 
those of a native of Britain. He expressed his astonishment at 
meeting our guest in this corner of the elobe, especially as, 
when they parted in Spain, he was taught to believe that 
Carwin should never leave that country. He insinuated that 
a change so great must have been prompted by motives of a 
‘singular and momentous kind. | 

~ No answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was gen- 
erally made to these insinuations. Britons and Spaniards, 


WIELAND; OR, 


he said, are votaries of the same Deity, and square their 
faith by the same precepts ; their ideas are drawn from the 
same fountains of literature and they speak dialects of the 
same tongue; their government and laws have more re- 
semblances than differences; they were formerly provinces 
of the same civil and, till lately, of the same religious em- 
pire. 

As to the motives which induce men to change the place of 
their abode, these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. 
If not bound to one spot by conjugal or parental ties, or 
by the nature of that employment to which we are indebted 
for subsistence, the inducements to change are far more 
numerous and powerful than opposite inducements. — 

He spoke as if desirous of showing that he was not aware 
of the tendency of Pleyel’s remarks; yet certain tokens 
were apparent that proved him by no means wanting in 
penetration. These tokens were to be read in his counte- 
nance, and not in his words. When anything was said in- 
dicating curiosity in us, the gloom of his countenance was 
deepened, his eyes sunk to the ground, and his wonted air 
was not resumed without visible struggle. Hence, it was 
obvious to infer that some incidents of his life were re- 
flected on by him with regret; and that, since these inci- 
dents were carefully concealed, and even ‘that regret which 
flowed from them laboriously stifled, they had not been 
merely disastrous, The secrecy that was observed appeared 
not designed to provoke or baffle the inquisitive, but was 
prompted by the shame or by the prudence of guilt. . 

These ideas, which were adopted by Pleyel and my brother 
as well as myself, hindered us from employing more direct 
means for accomplishing our wishes. Questions might have 
been put in such terms that no room should be left for the 
pretence of misapprehension ; and, if modesty merely had 
been the obstacle, such questions would not have been want- 
ing ; but we considered that, if the disclosure were productive 
of pain or disgrace it was inhuman to extort it. 


Hi Ui ane Te 
Tey ey, & tae ll ieee aie & ty wn i + 


Amid the various topics that were discussed in his pres- 
ence, allusions were, of course, made to the inexplicable events 
that had lately happened. At those times the words and 
looks of this man were objects of my particular attention. 
The subject was extraordinary ; and any one whose experi- 
ence or reflections could throw any light upon it was en- 
titled to my gratitude. As this man was enlightened by 
reading and travel I listened with eagerness to the remarks 
which he should make. 

At first I entertained a kind of apprehension that the tale 
would be heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. 
I had formerly heard stories that resembled this in some of 
their mysterious circumstances; but they were commonly 
heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful whether the 
same impression would not now be made on the mind of our 
euest ; but I was mistaken in my fears. 

He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks 
either of surprise or incredulity. He pursued with visible 
pleasure that kind of disquisition which was naturally sug- 
gested by them. His fancy was eminently vigorous and 
prolific; and, if he did not persuade us that human beings 
are sometimes admitted to a sensible intercourse with the 
Author of nature, he at least won over our inclinations to 
the cause. He merely deduced, from his own reasonings, 
that such intercourse was probable, but confessed that, 
though he was acquainted with many instances somewhat 
similar to those which had been related by us, none of 
them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion of human 
agency. 

On being requested to relate these instances, he amused 
us with many curious details. His narratives were con- 
structed with so much skill, and rehearsed with so much 
energy, that all the effects of a dramatic exhibition were 
frequently produced by them. Those that were most co- 


herent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled — 


to credit, were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art of 


PIE TRANSFORMATION. TOE 


. Ever een ye Reg. eo Mie Bee te dR Re a ere RS tery SN 
Yoetas poe Deve ott Oe tthe ey y 
r ae Wea Lola! Vey Se. | as am Por oe wove 


this rhetorician. For every difficulty that was suecested a 
ready and plausible solution was furnished. Mysterious 
voices had always a share in producing the catastrophe; but 
they were always to be explained on some known principles, 
either as reflected into a focus or communicated threugh a 
tube. IL could not but remark that his narratives, however 
complex or marvellous, contained no instanee sufficiently 


parallel to those that had befallen ourselves, and in wie 


the solution was applicable to our own ease. 

My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our 
guest. Kven in some of the facts which were related by 
Carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial interfer- 
ence, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and had found, 
as he imagined, footsteps of a human agent. Pleyel was by 
no means equally credulous. He scrupled not to deny faith 
to any testimony but that of his senses, and allowed the 
facts which had lately been supported by this testimony not 
to mold his belief, but merely to give birth to doubts. 

It was soon observed that Carwin adopted, in some degree, 
a similar distinction. A tale-of this kind, related by others, 
he would believe, provided it was explicable upon known 
principles; but that such notices were actually communicated 
by beings of a higher order he would believe only when his 
own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be other- 
wise accounted for. Civility forbade him to contradict my 
brother or myself, but his understanding refused to acquiesce 
in our testimony. Besides, he was disposed to question 
whether the voices heard in the temple, at the foot of the 
hill, and in my closet, were not really uttered by human 
organs. On this supposition he was desired to explain how 
the effect was produced. 

He answered that the power of mimicry was, very common. 
Catharine’s voice might easily be imitated by one at the foot 
of the hill, who would find no difficulty in eluding by flight 


the search of Wieland. The tidings of the death of the 


Saxon lady were uttered by one near at hand, who overheard 


‘ é 
vi" See 
s 
ie oe 


ve 


On rd 


+ 


THE 


the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose con- 


jecture happened to accord with the truth, That the voice 
appeared to come from the ceiling was to be considered as an 
illusion of the fancy. The cry for help, heard in the hall on 
the night of my adventure, was to be ascribed to a human 
‘creature, who actually stood in the hall when he uttered it. 
It was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by 
what motives he that made the signal was led hither. How 
imperfectly acquainted were we with the condition and de- 


siens of the beings that surround us! The city was near at. 


hand, and thousands might there exist whose powers and 
purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious in 
this transaction. As to the closet dialogue, he was. obliged 


to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm either that it 


was fashioned in my own fancy or that it actually took place 
between two persons in the closet. 

Such was Carwin’s mode of explaining these appearances. 
It is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausi- 
ble to the most sagacious minds; but it was insufficient to 
‘impart conviction to us. As to the treason that was medi- 
tated against me, it was doubtless just to conclude that it was 
either real or imaginary ; but that it was real was attested by 
the mysterious warning in the summer-house, the secret of 
which I had hitherto locked up in my own breast. 

A month passed away in this kind of intercourse. As to 
Carwin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened respect- 
ing his genuine character and views. Appearances were uni- 
form. No man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a 
ereater degree of skill in the communication of it to others ; 
hence he\was regarded as an inestimable addition to our so- 
ciety. Considering the distance of my brother’s house from 
the city, he was frequently prevailed upon to pass the night 
where he spent the evening. Two days seldom elapsed with- 
out a visit from him ; hence he was regarded as a kind of in- 


mate of the house. He entered and departed without cere- 
mony. When he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, 


TRANSFORMATION. <<. 103 


104 WIELAND. 
and when he chose to retire no importunities were used to 
induce him to remain. ! 

The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyment ; 


“ yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum 


was but the gleam ofa former sunshine. Carwin never parted 


with his gravity. The inscrutableness of his character, and 


the uncertainty whether his fellowship tended to good or evil, 
were seldom absent from our minds. .This circumstance pow- 
erfully contributed to sadden us. 

My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This 
change in one who had formerly been characterized by all the 
exuberances of soul could not fail to be remarked by my 
friends.. My brother was always a pattern of solemnity. My 
sister was clay, molded by the circumstances in which she 
happened to be placed. There was but one whose deport- 
ment remains to be described as being of importance to our 
happiness. Had Pleyel likewise dismissed his vivacity ? 

He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not 
happy. The truth in this respect was of too much impor- 
tance to me not to make me a vigilant observer. His mirth 
was easily perceived to be the fruit of exertion. When his 
thorvvhts wandered from the company, an air of dissatisfaction 
and impatience stole across his features. Even the punctual- 
ity and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. It may 
be supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these 
tokens ; but, strange as it may seem, I found, in the present 
state of my mind, no relief but in the persuasion that Pleyel 
was unhappy. : 

That happiness, indeed, depended for its value in my eyes 
on the cause that produced it. It did not arise from the death 
of the Saxon lady; it was not a contagious emanation from 
the countenances of Wieland or Carwin. There was but one 

ver source whence it. could flow. A nameless ecstasy thrilled 

ovgh my frame when any new proof occurred that the am- 
. 2uousness of my behavior was the cause. 


CHAPTER IX. 


My brother had received a new book from Germany. It 
was a tragedy, and the first attempt of a Saxon poet of whom 
my brother had been taught to entertain the highest expecta- 
tions. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven 
into a dramatic series and connection. According to German 
custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adven- ocae 
turous and lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts a 
and unheard-of disasters. The moated fortress and the = =~ 
thicket, the ambush and the battle, and the conflict of headlong 
passions were portrayed in wild numbers and with terrific en- 
erey. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse this perform- 
ance. The language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, 
whose company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with. 

The morning previous to this intended rehearsal I spent at 
home. My mind was occupied with reflections relative f>my 
own situation. The sentiment which lived with chief energy 
in my heart was connected with the image of Pleyel. Inthe 


midst of my anguish [ had not been destitute of consolation. a 
His late deportment had given spring to my hopes. Was not | a 
the hour at hand which should render me the happiest of se 


human creatures? He suspected that I looked with favorable 
eyes upon Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes which he 
strugeled in vain to conceal. He loved me, but was hopeless - 
that his love would be compensated. Is it not time, said I, 
to rectify this error? But by what means is this tobe ef- 
fected? It can only be done by a change of ge 
‘me ; but how must Ibemean myself for this purpose ? © 

I must not speak. Neither eyes nor lips must impart je 
information. He must not be assured that my heart is his, 


“previous to the tender of his own ; but he must be convinced 
that it has not been given to another ; he must be supplied 
with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true state of 
my affections ; he must be prompted to avow himself. The 
line of delicate propriety,—how hard it is not to fall short, 
and not to overleap it ! 

This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall not 
separate until late. It will be his province to accompany me 
home. The airy expanse is without a speck. This breeze is 
usually steadfast, and its promise of a bland and cloud- 
less evening maybe trusted. The moon will rise at eleven, 
and at that hour we shall wind along this bank. Possibly 
that hour will decide my fate. If suitable encouragement be 
eiven Pleyel will reveal his soul to me; and I, ere I reach this 
threshold, will be made the happiest of beings. 

And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy speed, 
sweet evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy 
beams at the moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I wou!d 
not for the world that the burning blushes and the mounting 
raptures of that moment should be visible. 

But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful 
of insurmountable limits. Yet, when minds are imbued witha 
eenuine sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? Are 
not motion and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as 


mine? Has he not eyed me at moments when the pressure of © 


his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was it. impossible 

that he mistook the impetuosities of love for the eloquence of 

indignation ? 

_ But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were 
come! And yetI shudder at its near approach. An inter- 


view that must thus terminate is surely to be wished for by 


me; and yet it is not without its terrors. Would to heaven 
it were come and gone ! | 

I feel no reluctance, my roe to be thus explicit. Time 
was, when these emotions would be hidden with the immeas- 


urable solicitude from every human eye. Alas! these airy and 


_ THE TRANSFORMATION. 107 
fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My scruples were pre- 
posterous and criminal. They are bred in all hearts by a 
perverse and vicious education, and they would still have 
maintained their place in my heart, had not my portion been 
set in misery. My errors have taught me thus much wisdom : 
—that those sentiments which we ought not to disclose it ig 
criminal to harbor. 3 

It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o’clock. I 


counted the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once 


too rapid and too slow; my sensations were of an excruciat- 
ing kind; I could taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor 
enjoy a2 moment’s repose ; when the hour arrived I hastened 
to my brother's. 

Pleyel wasnot there. He had not yet come. On ordinary 
occasions he was eminent for punctuality. He had testified 
ereat eagerness to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. 
He was to divide the task with my brother, and in tasks like 
these he always engaged with peculiar zeal. His elocution 
was less sweet than sonorous, and, therefore, better adapted 
than the mellifluences of his friend to the outrageous ve- 
hemence of this drama. | 

What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through 
forgetfulness. Yet this was incredible. Never had _ his 
memory been known to fail upon even more trivial occasions. 
Not less impossible was it that the scheme had lost its at- 
tractions, and that he stayed because his coming would afford 
him no gratification. But why should we expect him to ad- 

here to the minute ? 
' A half-hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. 
Perbaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been pro- 
posed. Perhaps he had conceived that to-morrow, and not 
to-day, had been selected for this purpose; but no. A re- 
view of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such mis- 
apprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed 

this day, and this hour. This day his attention would not 
st otherwise be occupied ; but to-morrow an indispensable en- 


24 Se Veer ea ae ae Sh ae 
pose Soe Saba id Ve 
ay * scary ‘ a8 * 


Se et a i | OT te ete Se oan ONT OD ON re | Bg OS a cn SS gt te ) 
' pr A BEN * Rae 2 is ie Pas =p EN ielpes as 3 cites ie Se ne a Fo * 
- « ty 25 . ria 3 F Spit day jabor sgi ees ah Na cathe > 


x 
2 

<4 - + 
- me “44 


108 WIELAND; OR, 
eagement was foreseen, by which all his time would be en- 


erossed. His detention, therefore, must be owing to some un- 
foreseen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures were 


vague, tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His sickness and — 


his death might possibly have detained him. 

Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and 
at the path which led from the road. Every horseman that 
passed was, for a moment, imagined to be him. Hour suc- 
ceeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at length dis- 
appeared. Every signal of his coming proved fallacious, and 
our hopes were at length dismissed. His absence affected 
my friends in no insupportable degree. They should be 
obliged, they said, to defer this undertaking till the morrow ; 
and perhaps their impatient curiosity would compel them to 
dispense entirely with his presence. No doubt some harmless 
occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they 
trusted that they should receive a satisfactory account of him 
in the morning. ay, 

It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me 
in a very different manner. I turned aside my head to con- 
ceal my tears. I fled into solitude, to give vent to my re- 
proaches without interruption or restraint. My heart was 
ready to burst with indignation and grief. Pleyel was not 
the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply 
did I execrate my own folly. Thus fallen into ruins was the 


gay fabric which I had reared! Thus had my golden vision J 


melted into air! 

How-fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he 
were, would he have suffered any obstacle to hinder his 
coming? ‘ Blind and infatuated man!” I exclaimed. ‘Thou 
sportest with happiness. The good that is offered thee thou 
has the insolence and folly to refuse. Well, I will henceforth 
intrust my felicity to no one’s keeping but my own.” 

The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow 
me to be reasonable or just. Livery ground on which I had 
built the persuasion that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 109 


fayor appeared to vanish. It seemed as if I had been misled 
into this opinion by the most palpable illusions. 

I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier 
than I expected, to my own house. I retired early to my 
chamber, without designing to sleep. I placed myself at a 
window, and gave the reins to reflection. 

The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately con- 
trolled me were, in some ‘degree, removed. New dejection 
succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late 
behavior. Surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred 
which obscures our understanding and urges us to the com- 
mission of injustice. What right had I to expect his attend- 
ance? Had I not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his 
happiness, andas having bestowed my regards upon another ? 
His absence might be prompted by the love which I con- 
sidered his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came not 
because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aver- 
sion, contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by 
hypocrisy or silence, his misery as well as my own? Why 
not deal with him explicitly, and assure him of the truth? 

You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this sugges- 
tion, I rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might 
instantly make this confession in a letter. A second thought 
showed me the rashness of this scheme, and I wondered by 
what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed into a momentary 
approbation of it. Isaw with the utmost clearness that a 
confession like that would be the most remediless and un- 
pardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly 
unworthy of that passion which controlled me. 

Iresumed my seat and my musing. To account for the 
absence of Pleyel became once more the scope of my con- 
jectures. . How many incidents might occur to raise an in- 
superable impediment in his way! When I was a child, a 
scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, 
had been in like manner frustrated by his absence ; but his 
absence, in that instance, had been occasioned by his falling 


WIELAND; OR, 


from a boat into the river, in consequence of which he had 
run the most imminent hazard of being drowned. Here was 
a second disappointment endured by the same persons, and 
produced by his failure. Might it not originate in the same 
cause? Had he not designed to cross the river that morning 


to make some necessary purchases in New Jersey ? He had ~ 


pre-concerted to return to his own house to dinner ; but per- 
haps some disaster had befallen him. Experience had tage 
me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of 
boat which Pleyel used ; I was, likewise, actuated by an her- 
editary dread of alee These circumstances combined to 


bestow considerable plausibility on this conjecture ; but the 


consternation with which I began to be seized was allayed by 
reflecting that, if this disaster had happened, my brother 
would have received the speediest information of it. The 
consolation which this idea imparted was ravished from me 
by a new thought. This disaster micht have happened, and 
his family not be apprised of it. The first intelligence of 
lis fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which the 
tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore. 

Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures ; thus was I 


tormented by phantoms of my own creation. It was not al- 


ways thus. I can ascertain the date when my mind became 
the victim of this imbecility ; perhaps it was coeval with the 
inroad of a fatal passion—a passion that will never rank me 
in the number of its eulogists ; it was alone sufficient to the 


extermination of my peace; it was itself-a plenteous source 


of calamity, and needed not the coneurrence of other evils 
to take away the attractions of existence and dig for me an 
| untimely erave. 

The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of re- 
flections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset a 
human being. By no violent transition was I led to ponder 

the turbulent life and mysterious end of my father: I 
cherished with the utmost veneration the memory of this 


man, and every relic connected with his fate was preserved 


a 


«0 


Ret RONEN Cones ese! ea gs N 


se oe fe ERG, ~es 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 111 


with the most scrupulous care. Among these was to be num- 
bered a manuscript containing memoirs of his own life. The 
narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence ; 
but neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the 
author. Its style had an unaffected and picturesque simplic- 
ity. The great variety and circumstantial display of the inci- 
dents, together with their intrinsic importance as descriptive 
of human manners and passions, made it the most useful book 
in my collection. It was late ; but, being sensible of no incli- 
nation to sleep, I resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it, 

To do this, if was requisite to procure a light. The girl 
had long since retired to her chamber, 1¢ was therefore 
proper to wait upon myself. The lamp, and the means of 
lighting it, were only to be found in the kitchen. Thither I 
resolved forthwith to repair ; but the heht was of use merely 
to enable me to read the book. I knew the shelf and the 
spot where it stood. Whether I took down the book or pre- 
pared the lamp in the first place appeared to be a matter of 
no moment. The latter was preferred, and, leaving my seat, 
I approached the closet in which, as | mentioned formerly, 
my books and papers were deposited. 

Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in 
this closet occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, 
or had passed, I knew not. I was, as then, alone and de- 
fenceless. The wind was in that direction in which, unaided 
by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the mur- 
mur of the waterfall. This was mingled with that solemn 
and enchanting sound which a breeze produces among the 
leaves of pines. Tle words of that mysterious dialogue, their 
fearful import, and the wild excess to which I was iransport- 
ed by my terrors, filled my imagination anew. My steps 
faltered, and I stood a moment to recover myself. 

I prevailed on myself at lenoth to move toward the closet. 
{ touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless ; I was 
visited afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of be- 
_ lief darted into my mind that some being was concealed with- 


ey 


mq 


= 


~ 


TTD ey, “WIELAND; OR, + — 
in whose purposes were evil. I began to contend with those — 
fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without 1 impro- 
priety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. I 16> sem 
ceded a few steps ; but before I reached the chamber door. 
my thoughts took a new direction. Motion seemed to pro- 
duce a mechanical influence upon me. Iwas ashamed of my _ 
weakness. Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp? 

My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It 
would be difficult to depict in words the ingredients and hues ® 
of that phantom which haunted me. A hand invisible and of 
preternatural strength, lifted by human passions, and select- 
ing my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific image. 
All places were alike accessible to this foe ; or, if his empire 
were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly 
inscrutable to me. But had Inot been told, by some one 
in league with this enemy, that every place but the recess in 
the bank was exempt from danger ! 

T returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon 


the lock. Oh, may my ears lose their sensibility ere they be a 
again assailed by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my under- a 
standing was subdued by the sound; it acted on my nerves ; 
like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres oe 


of my brain and rack every joint with agony. | + 
The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless hu- a 
man. No articulation was ever more distinct. The breath 
which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every cir- 
eumstance combine to persuade me that the lips which uttered 
it touched my very shoulder. 
«Fold! hold!” were the words of this tremendous pro- 
‘hibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped 
up, and every enere ey converted into eagerness and terror. 
Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and, by the 
same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to ex- 
-amine the mysterious monitor. The moonlight streamed inte 
each window, and every corner of the room was conspicuous, 
and yet I beheld anaes I 


THE TRANSFORMATION. _ 113 


The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, be- 
tween the utterance of these words and my scrutiny directed 
to the quarter whence they came. Yet, if a human being had 
been there, could he fail to have been visible? Which of my 
senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? The shock which the 
sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame. The 
sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. 
But that I had heard it was not more true than that the be- 
ing who uttered it was stationed at my right ear ; yet my 
attendant was invisible, 

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. 
Surprise had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and 
the vital current was congealed. I was conscious only to the 
vehemence of my sensations. This condition could not be 
lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an over- 
whelming height and then gradually subsides, my confusion 
slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. Iwas 
able to deliberate and move. Jresumed my feet, and ad- 
vanced into the midst of the room. Upward, and behind, 
and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not 
satisiied with one examination. He that hitherto refused 
to be seen might change his purpose, and on the next survey 
be clearly distinguishable. 

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is 
less fertile of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. I 
wasalone, and the walls were checkered by shadowy forms. As 
the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows 
seemed to be endowed with life, and to move, The apartment 
was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally 
blown from its ordinary position. This motion was not un- 
accompanied with sound. I failed not to snatch a look and 
to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. My be- 
lief that my monitor was posted near was strong, and instantly 
converted these appearances to tokens of his presence ; and 
yet I could discern nothing. 

When my thoughts were at leneth permitted to revert to 


=t9 ; : 


“114 - WIELAND; OR, 
the past, the first idea that occurred was the Pee ane be- 
tween the words of the voice which I had just heard and 
those which had terminated my dream in the summer-house. 
Tiere are means by which we are able to distinguish a sub- 
stance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom ofa dream. 
The pit, my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my 
arm, and the voice behind, were surely imaginary. That these 
incidents were fashioned in my sleep is supported by the 
same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself 
awake at present ; yet the words and the voice were the same. 


Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was .aware of the 


danger, while my actions and sensations were those of one 
wholly unacquainted with it. Now, was it not equally true 
that my actions and persuasions were at war? Had not the 
belief that evil lurked in the closet gained admittance, and 
had not my actions betokened an Se : security ? 
To obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had 
been used. 

In my dream he that tempted me to my destruction was 
my brother. Death was ambushed in my path. From what 
evil was I now rescued? What minister or implement of ill 
was shut up in this recess? Who was it whose suffocating 
erasp I was to feel should I dare to enter it? What mon- 
strous conception is this? My brother? 


No; protection and not injury is his province. Strange 


and terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dis- 
missed. It was surely no vulgar agency that gave this form 
to my fears. He to whom all parts of time are equally pres- 
ent, whom no contingency approaches, was the Author of that 
spell which now seized upon me. Life was dear to me. No 
consideration was present that enjoined me to relinquish it. 


Sacred duty combined with every spontaneous sentiment to_ 


endear to me my being. Should I not shudder when my 
being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me 
when the arm lifted against me was Wieland’s? 


Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no 


Hea sete 


ute 
2 


‘ 
er 
. 
iA 
na | 


VN CRS Ts age 
, | Ree ee ee ee eee ee 


yon 


Oe ke 


po 


ee ST Oe ee 


-t 


Pa ae 


YP) ee ne Fe tes Non. MEL AR ed ee al! EEL Nina eee MARES 
ens , Se Jf Ce ey Oa NE ean: ie a 


f ¢" a 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 145 


established laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my 
foe? Why, but because an omen of my fate was ordained to 
be communicated. Yet what salutary end did it serve? Did 
it arm me with caution to elude or fortitude to bear the evils 
to which I was reserved? My present thoughts were, no 
doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing be- 
tween these incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was 
frenzy that dictated my deed. That a ruffian-was hidden in 
the closet was an idea the genuine tendency of which was to 
urge me to flight. Such had been the effect formerly pro- 
duced. Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought 
at present, no doubt the same impulse would have been ex- 
perienced ; but now it was my brother whom I was irresist- 
ibly persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill of which I 
had been forewarned. This persuasion did not extenuate my 
fears or my danger. Why, then, did I again approach the 
closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was instantly 
conceived and executed without faltering. 

The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of sim- 
ple structure, easily forewent its hold. It opened into. the 
room, and.commonly moved upon its hinges, after being un- 
fastened, without any-effort of mine. This effort, however, 
was bestowed on the present occasion. It was my purpose to 
open it with quickness; but the exertion which I made was 
ineffectual. It refused to open. 

At another time, this circumstance would not have looked 
with a face of mystery. I should have supposed some casual 
obstruction and repeated my efforts to surmount it. But 
now my mind was accessible to no conjecture but one. The 
door was hindered from opening by human force. Surely, 
here was a new cause for affright. This was confirmation 
proper to decide my conduct. Now was all eround of hesita- 
tion taken away. What could be supposed but that I de- 
serted the chamber and the house? that I at least endeavored 
no longer to withdraw the door ?— 

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by frenzy ? 


116.- WIHDANDS “OB, 0 0 


« 


My reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my 
resolves. I reiterated my endeavors. I exerted all my force 
to overcome the obstacle, but in vain. The strength that was 
exerted to keep it shut was superior to mine. 

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audacious- 
ness of this conduct. Whence, but from a habitual defiance 
of danger, could my perseverance arise? I have already 
assigned, as distinctly as I am able, the cause of it. The 


frantie conception that my brother was within, that the resist- | 


ance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted 
itself in my mind. You will comprehend the height of this 
infatuation when I tell you that, finding all my exertions 
vain, I betook myself to exclamations. Surely I was utterly 
bereft of understanding. 

Now I had arrived at the crisis of my fate. ‘‘Oh, hinder 
not the door to open,’ I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of 
fear than of grief in it. ‘“I know you well. Come forth, 
but harm me not. I-beseech you, come forth.” 

I had taken my hand from the lock and romared to a eal 
distance from the door. I had scarcely uttered these words 
when the door swung upon its hinges and displayed to my 
view the interior of the closet. Whoever was within was 
shrouded in darkness. A few seconds passed without inter- 
ruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. 
My eyes would not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep 
sigh was heard. The quarter from which it came heightened 
the eagerness of my gaze. Some one approached from the 
farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines of a human 
fioure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it 
advanced. 

By coming at length within the verge of the room his 
form was clearly distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself 
a very different personage. The face that presented itself 


was the last that I should desire to meet at an hour and in a 
place like this. My wonder was stifled by my fears. As- — 


sassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned 


/ 


Se , 


TRANSFORMATION. — eae Byes 


DEEP, 
me of danger that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned 
the intimation and cliallenged my adversary. 

I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious charac- 
ter of Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones could guide 
his steps hither? I was alone. My habit suited the hour, 
and the place, and the warmth of the season. All succor was 
remote. He had placed himself between me and the door. 
My frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions. 

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself; I vigilantly marked 
his demeanor. His looks were grave, but not without per- 
turbation. What species of inquietude it betrayed the light 
was not strong enough to enable me to discover. He stood 


still; but his eyes wandered from one object to another. 


When these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I shrunk 
into myself. At length he broke silence. Harnestness and 
not embarrassment, was in his tone. He advanced close to 
me while he spoke : 

«What voice was that which lately addressed you?” 

He paused for an answer ; but observing my trepidation, 


he resumed, with undiminished solemnity, ‘‘ Be not terrified. 


Whoever he was, he has done you an important service. I 
need not ask you if it were the voice of a companion. That 
sound was beyond the compass of human organs. ‘The knowl- 
edee that enabled him to tell you:who was in the closet was 
obtained by incomprehensible means. 
“You knew that Carwin was there. .Were you not apprised 
of his intents? The same power could impart: the one as well 
as the other. Yet, knowing these, you persisted. Audacious 
girl! But perhaps ‘you confided in his guardianship. Your 
confidence was just. With succor like this at hand you may ~ 
safely defy me. . : 
“He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best-concerted 
schemes. Twice have you been saved by his accursed inter- 
position. But for him I should long ere now have borne away _ 
the spoils of your honor.” : : 
He looked at me with greater steadfastness than before. I 


WIELAND; OR,- 


/ 


became every moment more anxious for my safety. It was 
with difficulty I stammered out an entreaty that he would in- 


_ Stantly depart or suffer me to do so. He paid no regard to 
my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner : 

“What isit you fear? Have I not told you you are safe ? 
Has not one in whom you more reasonably place trust assured 
you of it? Even if I execute my purpose, what injury is 
done? Your prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits 
it not. 

“I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor: a 
sentiment that would sanctify my deed ; but, whatever it be, 
you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped ; I will do 
~ nothing to pollute it.” There he stopped. 

Lhe accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all 
courage. Surely, on no other occasion should I have been 
thus pusillanimous. My state I reearded as a hopeless one. 
Iwas wholly at the mercy of this being. Whichever way I 
turned my eyes I saw no avenue by which I might escape. 
The resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my 
eloquence, I estimated at nothing. The dignity of virtue and 
the force of truth I had been accustomed to celebrate, and 
had frequently vaunted of the conquests which I should make 
with their assistance. 

I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a 
being in possession of a sound mind ; that true virtue supplies 
us with energy which vice can never resist ; that it was always 
in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an 
enemy who aimed at less than our life. How was it that a 
sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and that I trusted 
to the protection of chance or to the pity of my persecutor ? 

His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had 
meditated. He talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. 
He had relinquished his design. These sources supplied me 
with slender consolation. There was no security but in his 
absence. When I looked at myself, when I reflected on the 
hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection. 


wat wel : 33 


” 


PTE TRANSFORMATION. 119° 


pee at 6 ae Pai 
Lani s Sons Seale iS aan 


He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet 
made no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What 
couldI say? Iwas confident that reason in this contest would 
be impotent. I must owe my safety to his own suggestions. 
Whatever purpose brought him hither he had changed it. 
Why, then, did he remain? His resolutions might fluctuate, 
and the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolu- 
tions. 

Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with un- 
wearied kindness? Whose society was endeared to us by his 
intellectual elevation and accomplishments? Who had a 
thousand times expatiated on the usefulness and beauty of 
virtue? Why should such a one be dreaded? If I could 
have forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had 
taken place I might have treated his words as jests. Pres- 
ently, he resumed : 

“Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all 
visible succor is distant. You believe yourself completely in 
my power ; that you stand upon the brink of ruin. Such are 
your groundless fears. I cannot lift a finger to hurt you. 
Fasier would it be to stop the moon in her course than to 
injure you. The power that protects you would crumble my 
sinews and reduce me to a heap of ashes ina moment if I 
were to harbor a thought hostile to your safety. 

“Thus are appearances at leneth solved. Little did I ex- 
pect that they originated henee. What a portion is assigned 
to you! Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path 
will be without pits to swallow or snares to entangle you. 
Environed by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be 
frustrated and all malice repelled.” 

Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every 
gesture and look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately pos- 
sessed his countenance gave way to anew expression. All 
now was trepidation and anxiety. 

“T must be gone,” said he, in a faltering accent. “ Why 
do I linger here? I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that 


i your { terrors: are Sable “Your pardon: 
fear, and not dictated by compassion. _ ag must. fly | none you i 
forever. He that could plot against your honor. must. ex-. 
pect from you and your friends persecution and death. I 
must doom myself to endless exile.” =~ ~ | ' 
Saying this, he hastily left the room. I teranoe aehils fe 
descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went 


forth. I did not follow him with my eyes, as the moonlight 2 


— would have enabled me to do. — “Relieved by his absence, and a 

3 _ exhausted by the conflict of my fears, 1 threw myself on “ae 
a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which 
incidents like these could not fail to pe oduce. ; : | 


CHAPTER X. 


Orver could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. 
The voice still rang in my ears. Every accent that was ut- 
tered by Carwin was fresh in my remembrance. His unwel- 
come, approach, the recognition of his person, Ins hasty de- 
parture, produced a complex impression on my mind which no 
words can delineate, I strove to give a slower motion to my 
thoughts, and to regulate a confusion which became painful ; 


but my efforts were nugatory. I covered my eyes with my 
hand, and sat, I know not how long, without power to ar-. 


range or utter my conceptions. 

Thad remained for hours, asI believed, in absolute soli- 
tude. No thought of personal danger had molested my 
tranquillity. I had made no preparation for defence. What 
was it that suggested the design of perusing my father’s 
manuscript? If, instead of this, I had retired to bed and to 
sleep, to what fate might I not have been reserved. The ruf- 
fian, who must almost have suppressed his breathing to 
sereen himself from discovery, would have noticed this signal, 
and I should have awakened only to perish with affright, and 
to abhor myself. Could I have remained unconscious of my 
danger? Could I have tranquilly slept in the midst of so 
deadly a snare? 

And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By what 
means could he hide himself in this closet? Surely he is 
gifted with supernatural power. Such is the enemy of whose 
attempts I was forewarned. Daily I had seen him and con- 


set versed with him. Nothing could be discerned through the 
impenetrable veil of his duplicity. When busied in con- 
___jectures as to the author of the evil that. was threatened, my 


129755 | WIHLAND : OR 


mind did not light for a moment upon his image. Yet hag 
he not avowed himself my enemy? Why should he be here 
if he had not meditated evil ? 

He confesses that this has been his second attempt. What 
was the scene of his former conspiracy ? Was it not he whose 
whispers betrayed him? AmI deceived? or was there not a 
faint resemblance between the voice of this man and that 
which talked of grasping my throat and extinguishing my 
life ina moment? Then he had a colleague in his crime; 
now he is alone. Then death was the scope of his thoughts ; 
now an injury unspeakably more dreadful. _ How thankful 
should I be to the power that has interposed to save me! 

That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of 
one of my senses. What are the means that will inform me 
of what nature itis? He has set himself to counterwork the 
machinations of this man, who had menaced destruction to all 
that is dear to me, and whose coming had surmounted every 


human impediment. There was none to rescue me from his 


grasp. My rashness even hastened the completion of his 
scheme, and precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. 
T had robbed him of the power to repent and forbear. Had 
I been apprised of the danger I should have regarded my 
conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it impos- 
sible. Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my in- 
visible protector. Else why that startling entreaty to refrain 
from opening the closet? By what inexplicable infatuation 
was I compelled to proceed ? 

Yet my conduct was wise. Carwin, unable to comprehend 
my folly, ascribed my behavior to my knowledge. He con- 
ceived himself previously detected, and, such detection being 
possible to flow only from my heavenly friend and his enemy, 
his fears acquired additional strength. : 

He is apprised of the nature and intentions of this being. 


Perhaps he is a human agent. Yet on that supposition his 


achievements are incredible.. Why should I be selected as 


the object of his care? or, if a mere mortal, should I not rec-_ 


eee ee Pea 


Pita ots 
my a Og 


<3 Pe: +1 Wee 


tyt 


« ty 
E> Xe ee ¥ AE 


i 
u 
ve 


cs 


rae et Aware 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 123 


oenize some one whom benefits imparted and received 
had prompted to love me? What were the limits and dura- 
tion of his guardianship? Was the genius of my birth in- 
trusted by divine benignity with this province? Are human 
faculties adequate to receive stronger proofs of the existence 
of unfettered and beneficent intelligences than 1 have re- 
ceived ? 

But who was this man’s coadjutor? The voice that ac- 
knowledged an alliance in treachery with Carwin warned me 
to avoid the summer-house. He assured me that there only 
my safety was endangered. His assurance, as it now appears, 
was fallacious. Was there not deceit in his admonition? 
Was his compact really annulled? Some purpose was, per- 
haps, to be accomplished by preventing my future visits to 
that spot. Why was I enjoined silence to others on the sub- 
ject of this admonition, unless it were for some unauthorized 
and guilty purpose ? 

No one but myself was accustomed to visit it. Backward. 
it was hidden from distant view by the rock, and in front it 


was screened from all examination by creeping plants and the 


branches of cedars. Whatrecess could be more propitious 
to secrecy? The spirit which haunted it formerly was pure 
and rapturous. It was a fane sacred to the memory of in- 
fantile days, and to blissful imaginations of the future? 
What a gloomy reverse had succeeded since the ominous ar- 
rival of this stranger! Now, perhaps, it is the scene of his 
meditations. Purposes fraught with horror, that shun the 
light and contemplate the pollution of innocence, are here 
engendered, and fostered, and reared to maturity. 

Such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuous- 
ly revolved by me. I reviewed every conversation in which 
Carwin had borne a part. Istudied to discover the true in- 
ferences deducible from his deportment and words with re- 
gard to his former adventures and actual views. I pondered 
on the comments which he made on the relation which I had 
piven of the closet dialogue. No new ideas suggested them- 


selves in the course of this review. My expectation had, 
from the first, been disappointed on the small degree of sur- 
prise which this narrative excited in him. He never explicitly 
declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or de- 
cided whether they were real or visionary. He recommended 
no measures of caution or prevention. 

But what measures were now to be taken? Was the danger 
which threatened me at an end? Had I nothing more to 


fear? I was lonely, and without means of defence. I could ~ 


not calculate the motives and regulate the footsteps of this 
person. What certainty was there that he would not reas- 


sume his purposes and swiftly return to the execution of 4 


them ? 

This idea covered me once more with dismay. How ieee 
did I regret the solitude in which I was placed, and how | 
ardently did I desire the return of day! But neither of these — 
inconveniences were susceptible of remedy. At first it oecur- 
red to me to summon my servant and make her spend the 
night in my chamber; but the ineflicacy of this expedient to 
enhance my safety was easily seen. Once I resolved to leave 
the house and retire to my brother’s, but was deterred by 
reflecting on the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm 
which my arrival and the account which I should be obliged 
to give might oceasion, and on the danger to which I might 
expose myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, to con- 
sider Carwin’s return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. 
He had relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and de- — 
parted without compulsion. ! 

“Surely,” said I, “there is omnipotence in the cause that 
changed the views of a man like Carwin. The divinity that 

shielded me from his attempts will take suitable care of my — 
future safety, Thus to yield to my fears is to deserve that 
they should be real.” 

Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention was 


startled by the sound of footsteps. They denoted someone & ee 


stepping into the piazza in front of my house, My new-born | 


< - FAR TRANSFORMATION. 


confidence was extinguished ina moment. Carwin, I thought, 
had repented his departure, and was hastily returning. The 
possibility that his return was prompted by intentions con- 
sistent with my safety found no place in my mind. Images 
of violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors 
which succeeded almost incapacitated me from taking any 
measures for my defence. It was an impulse of which I was 
scarcely conscious that made me fasten the lock and draw the 
bolts of my chamber door. Having done this, [threw myself 
ona seat; for I trembled to a degree which disabled me from 
standing, and my soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of 
listening that almost the vital motions were stopped. 

The door below creaked on its hinges, It was not again 
thrust to, but appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered, 
traversed the entry, and began to mount the stairs. How I 
detested the folly of not pursuing the man when he withdrew, 
and bolting after him the outer door! Might he not conceive 
this omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, 
and be thereby fortified in guilt ? 

very step on the stairs which brought bim nearer to my 

chamber added vigor to my desperation. ‘The evil with which 
I was menaced was to be at any rate eluded. How little did 
I preconceive the conduct which, in an exigence like this, 1 
should be prone to adopt! You will suppose that delibera- 
tion and despair would have suggested the same course of 
action, and that I should have unhesitatingly resorted to the 
best means of personal defence within my power. A penknife 
lay open upon my table. I remembered that it was there, and 
seized it. \For what purpose you will scarcely inquire. It 
will be immediately supposed that I meant it for my last — 
refuge, and that, if all other means should fail, [should plunge 
it into the heart of my ravisher. ; 

T have lost all faith in the steadfastness of human resolves. 

It was thus that in periods of calm I had determined to act. 


~- No cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence 


than that which prompted an injured female to destroy, not 


et ae 
eins Ogee 


ee a PP RAT ee ey MR, lglg uh hae nRe SOR att SS PSST mL Ss 
Sc est NY Oe WHE RM RHEE 2 eS eco ae I 


Ne 


126 - WIELAND; OR, 


her injurer ere the injury was perpetrated, but herself when 


it was without remedy. Yet now this penknife appeared to 
me of no other use than to baffle my assailant and prevent the 
crime by destroying myself. To deliberate at such a time was 
impossible ; but, among the tumultuous suggestions of the 
moment, I do not recollect that it once occurred to me to use 
it as an instrument of direct defence. 


The steps had‘now reached the second floor. Every foot-— 


fall accelerated the completion without augmenting the cer- 
tainty of evil. The consciousness that the door was fast, now 
that nothing but that was interposed between me and danger, 
was a source of some consolation. I cast my eye toward the 
window. ‘This, likewise, was a new suggestion. If the door 
should give way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself 
from the window. Its height from the ground, which was 
covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure my de- 
struction ; but I thought not of that. 

When opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. Was he 
listening whether my fears were allayed and my caution were 
asleep? Did he hope to take me by surprise? Yet, if so, 
why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his ap- 
proach? Presently the steps were heard again to approach 
the door. A hand was placed upon the lock and the latch 
pulled back. Did he imagine it possible that I should fail to 
secure the door? A slight effort was made to push it open, 
as if, all bolts being withdrawn, a slight effort only was re- 
quired. 

I no sooner perceived this than I moved swiftly toward the 
window. Carwin’s frame might be said to be all muscle. His 
strength and activity had appeared, in various instances, to be 


prodigious. A slight exertion of his force would demolish 


the door. Would not that exertion be made? ‘Too surely it 
would; but at the same moment that this obstacle should 
yield and he should enter the apartment, my determination 


was formed to leap from the window. My senses were still 


bound to this object. I gazed at the door in momentary ex- 


Bs, 


pectation that the assault would be made, The pause con- 
tinued. The person without was irresolute and motionless. 
Suddenly it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive me 
to have fled. That I had not betaken myself to flight was, in- 
deed, the least probable of all conclusions. In this persua- 
sion he must have been confirmed on finding the lower door 
unfastened and the chamber door locked. Was it not wise to 
foster this persuasion? Should I maintain deep silence, this, 
in addition to other circumstances, might encourage the be- 
lief, and he would once more depart. very new reflection 


added plausibility to this reasoning. It was presently more 


strongly enforced when I noticed footsteps withdrawing from 
the door. The blood once more flowed ‘back to my heart, 
and a dawn of exultation began to rise; but my joy was 
short-lived. Instead of descending the stairs he passed to the 
door of the opposite chamber, opened if, and, having entered, 
shut it after him with a violence that.shook the house. 

How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what end 
could he have entered this chamber? Did the violence with 


which he closed the door testify the depth of his vexation? — 


This room was usually occupied by Pleyel. Was Carwin 
aware of his absence on this night? Could he be suspected 
of a design so sordid as pillage? If this were his view, there 
were no means in my power to frustrate it. It behooved me 
to seize the first opportunity to escape; but, if my escape 


were supposed by my enemy to have been already effected, no — 


asylum was more secure than the present. How could my 
passage from the house be accomplished without noises that 
might incite him to pursue me? 

Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel’s 
chamber, I waited in instant expectation of hearing him come 
forth. All, however, was profoundly still. I listened in vain 
for a considerable period to eatch the sound of the door when 
- it should again be opened. There was no other avenue 

“by which he couid escape, but a door which led into the girl's 


= _ chamber. Would any evil from this quarter befall the girl? — | 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. 127 


198 5 ED OR, 


Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely 
added to the turbulence and agony of my reflections. What- 
ever evil impended over her, I had no power to avert it. Se- , 
clusion and silence were the only means of saving myselffrom 
the perils of this fatal night. What solemn vows did I put 
up, that, if I should once more behold the light of day, I 
would never trust myself again within the threshold of this 
dwelling! 

Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that 
Carwin had returned to the passage. What, I again asked, 
would detain him in this room? Was it possible that he had 
returned, and glided unperceived away? I was speedily 
aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprise like this ; 
and yet, as if by that means I were capable of gaining any in- | 
formation on that head I cast anxious looks from the window. 

The object that first attracted my attention was a human 
figure standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my pene- 
tration was assisted by my hopes. Be that as it will, the 
figure of Carwin was clearly distinguishable. From the 
obscurity of my station it was impossible that I should be 
discerned by him; and yet he scarcely suffered me to catch a 
glimpse of him. He turned and went down the steep, which 
in this part was not difficult to be scaled. 

My conjecture, then, had been right. Carwin has softly 
opened the door, descended the stairs, and issued forth. 
That I should not have overheard his steps was only less in-— 
credible than that my eyes had deceived me. But what was 
now to be done? The house was at length delivered from 
this detested inmate. By one avenue might he again re-enter. 
Was it not wise to bar the lower door? Perhaps he had gone 
out by the kitchen door. For this end he must have passed 
through Judith’s chamber. These entrances being closed and 
bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible with 
my lonely condition. ‘ 

The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to 
make me strugele successfully with my fears. YetIopened — 


i ae ~ ry = 2 


THE TRANSFORMATION. | ~~ 129 


my own door with the utmost caution, and descended as if I 
were afraid that Carwin had been still immured in Pleyel’s 
chamber. ‘The outer door was ajar. I shut it with trembling 
eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. I then 
passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlor, 
but was surprised to discover that the kitchen door was 
secure. I was compelled to acquiesce in the first conjecture 
that Carwin had escaped through the entry. 

My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of appre- 
hension. I returned once more to my chamber, the door of 
which I was careful to lock. It was no time to think of 
repose. The moonlight began already to fade before the 
licht of the day. The approach of morning was betokened 
by the usual signals. I mused upon the events of this night, 
and determined to take up my abode henceforth at my 
brother’s. Whether I should inform him of what had hap- 
pened was a question which seemed to demand some con- 
sideration. My safety unquestionably required that I should 
abandon my present habitation. 

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the 
image of Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again 
recurred to me. I again ran over the possible causes of his 
absence on the preceding day. My mind was attuned to 
melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which I could 
not account, on the idea of his death. JI painted to myself 
his struggles with the billows and his last appearance. I 
imagined myself a midnight wanderer on the shore and. to 
have stumbled on his corpse, which the tide had cast up. 
These dreary images affected me even to tears. I endeavored 
not to restrain them. They imparted a relief which I had 
not anticipated. The more copiously they flowed the more 
did my general sensations appear. to subside into calm, and a 
certain restlessness give way to repose. 


Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much ae 


MS Shs 


wanted might have stolen on my senses had there been no — 


new cause of alarm. 


CHAPTER XI. 


I was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently 
arose in the next chamber. Was it possible that I had been 
- mistaken in the figure which I had seen on the bank, or had 
Carwin, by some inscrutable means, penetrated once more 
into this chamber? The opposite door opened footsteps 
came forth, and the person, advancing to mine, knocked. 

So unexpected an incident robbed: me of all presence of 
mind, and, starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed, ‘“‘ Who is 
there?” An answer was immediately given. The voice, to 
my inexpressible astonishment, was Pleyel’s. 

“TItisI. Have yourisen? If you have not, make haste; 


_. I want three minutes’ conversation with you in the parlor. I 


will wait for you there.” Saying this, he retired from the 
door. 

Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If that were 
true, it was Pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the 
opposite chamber; he whom my rueful fancy had depicted in 
SO many ruinous and ghastly shapes ; he whose footsteps had 
been listened to with such inquietude! What is man, that 
knowledge is so sparingly conferred upon him; that his heart 
should be wrung with distress, and his frame be examined 


with fear, though his safety be encompassed with impregnable. 


walls!) What are the bounds of human imbecility? He 
that warned me of the presence of my foe refused the intima- 
tion by which so many racking fears would have been pre- 
cluded. 

Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at such 
an hour? His tone was desponding and anxious. Why this 
unseasonable summons; and why this hasty departure? 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. 


Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and unwelc 
import. 
My impatience would not allow me to consume much time 
in deliberation ; I hastened down. Pleyel I found standing 
at a window with eyes cast down asif in meditation, and arms 
folded on his breast. Every line in his countenance was preg- 
nant with sorrow. To this was added a certain wanness and 
air of fatigue. The last time I had seen him appearances had 
been the reverse of these. Iwas startled at the change. The 
first impulse was to question him as to the cause. This im- 
pulse was supplanted by some degree of confusion, flowing 
from a consciousness that love had too large, and, as it might 
prové, a perceptible share in creating tluis impulse. J was 
silent. os 

Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I 
read confusion in them, an anguish altogether ineffable. 
Never had I witnessed a like demeanor in Pleyel. Never, in- 
deed, had I observed a human countenance in which erief was 
more legibly inscribed. He seemed struggling for utterance 5 
but his struggles were fruitless, he shook lis head and turned 
away from me. 

My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent. 
« What,” said I, “for heaven’s sake, my friend—what 1s the 
matter ?” : 

He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a mo- 
ment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from 
erief. His accents were broken with rage : 

«The matter! O wretch!—thus exquisitely fashioned— — 
on whom Nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces ; 
with charms so awful and so pure; how art thou fallen! 
From what height fallen! A ruin so complete—so un- 
heard-of !” ene nS 

His words were again choked with emotion. Grief and “+. 
pity were again mingled in his features. He resumed, in Be 
tone half suffocated by sobs: , 

“But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee 


sl aces i RN aap ae Se NA Rens St pt teeny. AR 


WIELAND; OR, 


mt thou hast lost, efface this cursed stain, snatch thee from 
rhe jaws of this fiend, I would do it. Yet what avail my 
efforts? I have not arms with which to contend with so con- 
summate, so frightful a depravity. 

‘“‘ Bvidence less than this would only have excited resent- 
ment and scorn. The wretch who should have breathed a 
suspicion injurious to thy honor would have been regarded 
without anger: not hatred or envy could have prompted 
him ; it would merely be an argument of madness. That my 
eyes, that my ears should bear witness to thy fall! By no 
other way could detestable conviction be imparted. 

‘Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why ex- 
pose myself to thy derision? Here admonition and entreaty 
are vain. Thou knowest him already for a murderer and 
thief. I had thoueht to have been the first to disclose to 
thee his infamy ; to have warned thee of a pit to which thou 
art hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. Oh, foul and 
insupportable disgrace ! 

“There is but one path. I know you will disappear to-- 
gether. In thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of mul- 
titudes be involved! But it must come. This scene shall 
not be blotted by his presence. No doubt thou wilt shortly 
see thy detested paramour. This scene will be again pol- 
luted by a midnight assignation. Inform him of his dangers ; 
tell him that his crimes are known; let him fly far and in- 
: stantly from this spot, if he desires to avoid the fate which 
menaced him in Ireland. 

“And wilt thou not stay behind? But shame upon my 
weakness! I know not what I would say. I have done what 
I purposed. To stay longer, to expostulate, to beseech, to 
enumerate the consequences of thy act—what end can it 
serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes? And 
yet, oh, think—think ere it be too late—on the distresses 
which thy flight will entail upon us ; on the base, grovelling, - 
and atrocious character of the wretch to whom thou hast sold 
thy honor. But what is this? Is not thy effrontery impene- 


[HR TRANSFORMATION. 


trable and thy heart thoroughly cankered? Oh, most spe- 
cious and most profligate of women ! ” 

Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him in a 
few minutes hurrying along the path which led to my 


brother’s. I had no power to prevent his going or to recall. 


or to follow him. The accents I had heard were calculated 
to confound and bewilder. I looked around me, to assure 
myself that the scene was real. I moyed, that I might banish 
the doubt that I was awake. Such enormous imputations 
from the mouth of Pleyel! To be stigmatized with the 
names of wanton and profligate! To be charged with the 
sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch 
known to be a murderer and thief! with an intention to fly 
in his company ! 

What I had heard was surely the dictate of frenzy, or it 
was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. 


After the horrors of the night, after undergoing perils so im-_ 


minent from this man, to be summoned to an interview like 
this!—to find Pleyel fraught with a belief that, instead of 
having chosen death as a refuge from the violence of this 
man, I had hugged his baseness to my heart, had sacrificed 
for him my purity, my spotless name, my friendships, and 
my fortune! That even madness could engender accusations 
like these was not to be believed. . 


What evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild?» 


After the unlooked-for interview with Carwin in my chamber, 


he retired. Could Pleyel have observed his exit? It was . 


not long after that Pleyel himself entered. Did he build on 


this incident his odious conclusions? Could the long series ~ 


of my actions and sentiments grant me no exemption from 
Dynes so foul? Was it not more rational to infer that — 
Carwin’s designs had been illicit ? that my life had been en- 
dangered by the fury of one whom, by some means, he had_ 
discovered to be an assassin and robber ? that my honor had 
been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence ? 

He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn from 


138 


Te 


- WIRLAND; OR, 
dubious appearances conclusions the most improbable and un- 
just. He has loaded me with all outrageous epithets. _ He has 
ranked me with prostitutes and thieves. I cannot pardon 
thee, Pleyel, for this injustice. Thy understanding must be 
hurt. Ifit be not—if thy conduct was sober and deliberate 
—I can never forgive an outrage so unmanly and so gross. 
These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Pleyel was 


possessed by some momentary frenzy ; appearances had led 


him into palpable errors. Whence could his sagacity have 


contracted this blindness? Was it not love? Previously as- 


sured of my affection for Carwin, distracted with grief and 
jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some un- 
known instigation, his imagination transformed shadows into 
monsters, and plunged him into these deplorable errors. 

This idea was not unattended with consolation. My soul 
was divided between indignation at his injustice and delight 
on account of the source from which I conceived it to spring. 
Vor a long time they would allow admission to no other 
thoughts. Surprise is an emotion that enfeebles, not invigo- 
rates. All my meditations were accompanied with wonder. 
LI rambled with vagueness, or clung to one image with an ob- 
stinacy which sufficiently testified the maddening influence of 
late transactions. 


Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of. 


Pleyel’s mistake, and on the measures I should take to guard 
myself against future injury from Carwin. Should I suffer 
this mistake to be detected by time? When his passion 
should subside, would he not perceive‘the flagrancy of his in- 
justice and hasten to atone for it? Did it not become my 
character to testify resentment for laneuage and treatment so 
opprobrious? Wrapt up in the consciousness of innocence, 
and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to con- 


fute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be passive” 
‘and silent, 


As to the violences meditated by Carwin, and the means of 


eluding them, the path to be taken by me was obvions. I 


eee CHE TRANSFORMA 


¢ 


4 a a 


%, 


TION. 
yesolved to tell the tale to my brother and reculate myself by 
his advice. For this end, when the morning was somewhat 
advanced, I took the way to lis house. My sister was en- 


gaged in her customary occupations, As soon as | appeared, 
she remarked a change in my looks. I was not willing to 


alarm her by the information which I had to communicate, — 


Her health was in that condition which rendered a clisastrous 


tale particularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct answer to her — 


inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wieland. 
“Why,” said she, “I suspect something mysterious and 
unpleasant has happened this morning. Searcely had we 


risen when Pleyel dropped among us. What. could have © 


prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a visit 
-Leannot tell. To judge from the disorder of his dress, and 
his countenance, something of an extraordinary nature has 
occurred. He permitted me merely to know that he had slept 
none, nor even undressed, during the past night. He took 
your brother to walk with him. Some topic must have deeply 
engaged them, for Wieland did not return till the breakfast- 
hour was passed, and returned alone. His disturbance was 
excessive ; but he would not listen to my importunities, or tell 
me what had happened. I gathered, from hints which he let 
fall, that your situation was in some way the cause ; yet he 
assured me that you were at your own house, alive, in good 
health, and in perfect safety. He scarcely ate a morsel, and 
immediately after breakfast went out again. He would not 


inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he®: 


probably, might not return before night.” 


I was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. 


Pleyel had told his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausi- 
ble and exaggerated picture, instilled into him unfavorable 
thoughts of me. Yet would not the more correct judgment 
of Wieland perceive and expose the fallacy of his conclusions ? 
Perhaps his uneasiness might arise from some insight into 
the character of Carwin, and from apprehensions for my 


_ safety. The appearances by which Pleyel had been misled. 


4 


WIELAND; OR, 


might induce him likewise to believe that I entertained an in- 
discreet though not dishonorable affection for Carwin. Such 


were the conjectures rapidly formed. I was inexpressibly 


anxious to change them into certainty. For this end an in- 
-terview with my brother was desirable. He was gone no one 
knew whither, and was not expected speedily to return. I 
had no clue by which to trace his footsteps. 

My anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. They 
heightened her solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. 
There were many reasons persuading me to silence ; at least, 
till I had seen my brother, it would be an act of inexcusable 


temerity to unfold what had lately passed.. No other expe-— 


dient for eluding her importunities occurred to me but that 
of returning to my own house. I recollected my determina- 


tion to become a tenant of this roof. I-mentioned it to her. 


She joyfully acceded to this proposal, and suffered me with 
less reluctance to depart when I told her that it was with a 
view to collect and send to my new dwelling what articles 
would be immediately useful to me. 

Once more I returned to the house which had been the 
scene of so much turbulence and danger. I was at no great 
distance from it when I observed my brother coming out. 
On seeing me he stopped, and, after ascertaining, as it 
seemed, which way I was going, he returned into the house 
before me. I sincerely rejoiced at this event, and I hastened 
to set things, if possible, on their right footing. 


His brow was by no means expressive of those yaherieee : 
emotions with which Pleyel had been agitated. JI drew a 


favorable omen from this circumstance. Without delay I 
began the conversation. a 
“JT have been to look for you,” said I, “but was told by 
Catharine that Pleyel had engaged you on some important 
and disagreeable affair. Before his interview with you he 
spent a few minutes with me, These minutes he employed 
in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions with which I 
aan by no means chargeable. I believe him to have taken ob 


ah P ° we) ° , ° 
dice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his conduct, 


ene 


 —sSPR TRANSFORMATION. «187 = 


his opinions on very insufficient erounds. His behavior was 
in the highest degree precipitate and unjust, and, until I re- 
ceive some atonement, I shall treat him, in my turn, with 


that contempt which he justly merits ; meanwhile, I am fear-_ 


ful that he has prejudiced my brother against me. That 1s 
‘an evil which I most anxiously deprecate, and which I shall 
indeed exert myself to remove. Has he made me the sub- 
ject of this morning’s conversation ? ” 

My brother’s countenance testified no surprise at my ad- 
dress. The benignity of his looks was nowise diminished. 

“Tt ig true,” said he, “ your conduct was the subject of our 
discourse. Iam your friend as well as your brother. ‘There 
is no human being whom I love with more tenderness, and 
whose welfare is nearer my heart. Judge, then, with what 
emotions I listened to Pleyel’s story. I expect and desire you 
to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication 
be possible.” , 

The tone with which he uttered the last words affected me 
deeply. “If vindication be possible!” repeated I.‘ From 
what you know, do you deem a formal vindication necessary ? 
Can you harbor for a moment the belief of my guilt?” 

He shook his head with an air of acute anguish. “I have 
struggled,” said he, ‘‘ to dismiss that belief. You speak be- 
fore a judge who will profit by any pretence to acquit you ; 
who is ready to question his own senses when they plead 
against you.” 

These words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. I 
began to suspect that Pleyel had built his accusations on some 


foundation unknown to me. ‘I may be a stranger to the 


evrounds of your belief. Pleyel loaded me with indecent and 
virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that 
generated his suspicions. Hvents took place last night of 


which some of the cireumstances were of an ambiguous nat-— : 


ure. 1 conceived that these might possibly have fallen under 
his cognizance, and that, viewed through the mists of preju- 


WIBDAND; OR, 0 6 
but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would es- 


timate them at their just value. Perhaps his talehas been 
; different from what I suspect it to be. Listen, then, tomy 
ae narrative. If there be anything in his story inconsistent 
: with mine, his story is false.” 


I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the inci- 
dents of the last night. Wieland listened with deep atten- 
tion. Having finished, “ This,” continued I, “is the truth. 2 
You see in what circumstances an interview took place be- 
tween Carwin and me. He remained for hours in my closet, 
and for some minutes in my chamber. He departed with- 
out haste or interruption. If Pleyel marked him as he left 
the house (and it is not impossible that he did), inferences 
injurious to my character might suggest themselves fo him, 
. In adinitting them he gave proofs of less discernment and = 

less candor than I onee ascribed to him.” me 

‘His proofs,” said Wieland, after a considerable pause, 

‘‘are different. That he should be deceived is not possi- 

ble. That he himself is not the deceiver could not be be- 

2 lieved, if his testimony were not inconsistent with yours ; 
ve but the doubts which I entertained are now removed. Your 
i tale, some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which ex- 


ee 
SDs! halt ain Je | 


24 giv 


oe claimed against your rashness in approaching the closet, 
your persisting, notwithstanding that prohibition, your be- = 
lief that I was the ruffian, and your subsequent conduct, “> 
are believed by me, because I have known you from child- : 


hood, because a thousand instances have attested your ve- 
racity, and because nothing less than my own hearing and 
vision would convince me, in opposition to her own asser- 
a tions, that my sister had fallen into wickedness like this.” a 
ae I threw my arms around him and bathed his cheek with : 
my tears. “That,” said I, “is spoken like my brother. _But 2 
what are the proofs?” . ~ 

He replied, ‘Pleyel informed me that, in going to your ae 
house, his attention was attracted by two voices. The per- | 
sons speaking sat beneath the bank, out of sight. These — 


not repeat the dialogue. If my sister was the female, Pleyel 

was justified in concluding you to be indeed one of the most 
profligate of women. ‘Hewes his accusations of you, and his 
efforts to obtain my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal 
separation should be brought about between my sister and 
this man.” 

I made Wieland repeat this recital. Here indeed was a 
tale to fill me with terrible foreboding. I had vainly thought 
that my safety could be sufficiently secured by doors and 
bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp no power of divinity 
can save me! His artifices will ever lay my fame and happi- 
ness at his mercy. How shall I counterwork his plots or de- 
tect his coadjutor? He has taught some vile and abandoned 
female tomimic my voice. Pleyel’s ears were the witnesses 
of my dishonor. This is the midnight assignation to which 

~ he alluded. Thus is the silence he maintained when at- 
tempting to open the door of my chamber accounted for. 

He supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apart- 

ment been accessible, to leave in it some accusing memo- 
rial. aay 
Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity of his 
anguish, the depth of his despair I remembered with some 
tendencies to gratitude. Yet was he not precipitate? Was 
the conjecture that my part was played by some mimic so 
utterly untenable? Instances of this faculty are common. 
~The wickedness of Carwin must, in his opinion, have been 
\ adequate to such contrivances ; and yet the supposition of my 
- guilt was adopted in preference to that. 

But how was this error to be unveiled? What but my own 
assertion had I to throw in the balance against it? Would 
this be-permitted to outweigh the testimony of lis senses ? 
os Thad no witnesses to prove my existence in another place. 


The real events of that night are marvellous. Few to whom 


3 they should be related would seruple to discredit them. 
2 Pleyel ; is skeptical i in a transcendent degree. T cannot sum- 


persons, judging 2 their voices, were Chrivin and you. Twill. 


_ Tim TRawsvormartoy. ——-—-189- 


WIELAND; OR, 
mon Carwin to my bar, and make him the attester of my inno- 
cence and the accuser of himself. 

My brother saw and comprehended my distress. He was 
unacquainted, however, with the full extent of it. He knew 
not by how many motives I was incited to retrieve the good 
opinion of Pleyel. He endeavored to console me. Some new 


event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. Hedid — 


not question the influence of my eloquence, if I thought 
proper to exert it. Why not seek an interview with Pleyel, 
and exact from him a minute relation, in which something 
may be met with serving to destroy the probability of the 
whole? 

I caught with eagerness at this hope ; but my alacrity was 
damped by new reflections. Should I, perfect in this respect, 
and unblemished as I was, thrust myself uncalled into his 
presence, and make my felicity depend upon his arbitary 
verdict ? 3 

“Tf you choose to seek an interview,” continued Wieland, 
“you must make haste; for Pleyel informed me of his inten- 
tion to set out this evening or to-morrow on a long journey.” 

No intelligence was less expected or less welcome than this. 
I had thrown myself in a window-seat ; but now, starting on 
my feet, I exclaimed, “Good heavens! what is it you say? 
A journey? Whither? When ?” 

“T cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution, I be- 
lieve. I did not hear of it till this morning. He promises 
to write to me as soon as he is settled.” 

Ineeded no further information as to the cause and issue 
of this journey. The scheme of happiness to which he had 
devoted his thoughts was blasted by the discovery of last 
night. My preference of another, and my unworthiness to be 
any longer the object of his adoration, were evinced by the 
same act and in the same moment. The thought of utter 


desertion, a desertion originating in such a cause, was the — 


prelude to distraction. That Pleyel should abandon me for- 


eyer, because I was blind to his excellence, because I coveted 


as T sieved that this evil was still preventable ; : that this : 4 | 
fatal journey it was still 3 in my power to procrastinate, or, 
‘ae | 
_ perhaps, to occasion it tobe laid aside. There were no im- 
= -pediments to a visit; ly dreaded lest the interview should — 
be too long delayed. ic ther befriended my impatience, 
and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant 
Z to attend me. My purpose was to go immediately to Pleyel’s 
"farm, where his engagements usually detained him during 


CHAPTER XII. 


ul 


My way lay through the city. 1 


Livery object grew dim and swam before my sight. It was 
with difficulty that I prevented myself from sinking to the 
bottom of the carriage. I ordered myself to be carried to 
Mrs. Baynton’s, in hope that an interval of repose would in- 
vigorate and refresh me. My distracted thoughts would al- 


low me but little rest. Growing somewhat better in the — 


afternoon, | resumed my journey. 

My contemplations were limited to a few objects. I re- 
earded my success in the purpose which I had in view as 
considerably doubtful. I depended, in some degree, on the 
suggestions of the moment, and on the materials which 
Pleyel himself should furnish me. When I reflected on the 
nature of the accusation, I burned with disdain. Would 
not truth, and the consciousness of innocence, render me 
triumphant? Should I not cast from me, with irresistible 
force, such atrocious imputations ? 

What an entire and mournful change has been effected 


in a few hours! The gulf that separates man from insects. 


is not wider than that which severs the polluted from the 


chaste among women. Yesterday and to-day I am the 


same. There is a degree of depravity to which it is im- 
‘possible for me to sink ; yet, in the apprehension of another, 
my ancient and intimate associate, the perpetual witness of 
my actions and partaker of my thoughts, I had ceased to 


be the same. My integrity was tarnished and withered in | 
his eyes. I was the colleague of a murderer, and the para-- 


mour of a thief ! : 


chad scarcely entered it — 
when I- was seized with a genéral sensation of sickness. 


» » 

Fite : 
NA okt : 
Dirge on re na: 


as 
a kL 


$595, 


te 


Ce, pan a ee oe 


cm, 
al 


“ 


re st - a Nees 


HS 


His opinion was not destitute of evidence; yet what 
proofs could reasonably avail to establish an Opinion like 
this? If the sentiments corresponded not with the voice 
that. was heard, the evidence was deficient ; but this want 
ef correspondence would have been supposed by me if I had 
been the auditor and Pleyel the criminal. But mimicry 
might still more plausibly have been employed to explain 
the scene. Alas! it is the fate of Clara Wieland to fall into 
the hands of a precipitate and inexorable judge. 

But, what, O man of mischief, is the tendency of thy 
thoughts? Frustrated in thy first desion, thou will not fore- 
go the immolation of thy victim. To exterminate my repu- 
tation was all that remained to thee: and this my guardian 
has permitted. To dispossess Pleyel of this prejudice may 
be impossible ; but, if that be effected, it cannot be supposed 
that thy wiles are exhausted ; thy cunning will discover in- 
numerable avenues to the accomplishment of thy malignant 
purpose. 

Why should I enter the lists against thee? Would to 
heaven I could disarm thy vengenance by my deprecations! 

When I think of all the resources with which nature and 
education have supplied thee—that thy form is acombination 
of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and bound- 
less compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite 
endownments and comprehending all knowledge--I perceive 
that my doom is fixed. What obstacle will be able to di- 
_ vert thy zeal or repel thy efforts? That being who has hither- 
to protected me has born testimony to the formidableness of 
_ thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural interfer- 
ence could check thy career. 

Musing on these thoughts, I arrived, toward the close of 
the day, at Pleyel’s house. <A month before I had traversed 
the same path ; but-how different were my sensations! Now 
_ Iwas seeking the presence of one who regarded me as the 

most degenerate of human kind. Iwas to plead the cause 
5 of my innocence against witnesses the most exphcit and un- 


a 
% 


THH TRANSFORMATION. MLA 


Ue 


ay Po! 


144 WIELAND; OR, 


erring of those which support the fabric of human knowledge. 
The nearer I approached the crisis, the more did my confidence 
decay. When the chaise stopped at the door, my strength 
refused to support me, and I threw myself into the arms of 
an ancient female domestic. I had not courage to inquire 
whether her master was at home. I was tormented with oe . 
fears that the projected journey was already undertaken. a 

These fears were removed by herasking me whether sheshould = 
call her young master, who had just gone into hisown room. 
I was somewhat revived by this intelligence, and resolved im-_ 
mediately to seek him there. 

In my confusion of mind, I neglected to knock at the 
door, but entered his apartment without previous notice. 
This abruptness was altogether involuntary. Absorbed in re- 
flections of such unspeakable moment, I had no leisure. to “ 
heed the niceties of punctilio. J discovered him standing” 4 
with his back toward the entrance. A small trunk, with its ‘ 
lid raised, was before him, in which it seemed as if he had i 
been busy in packing his clothes. The moment of my en- | © 
trance, he was employed in gazing at something which he : 
held in his hand. . 

I imagined that I fully comprehended the scene. The 
image which he held before him, and by which his attention Fe 
was so deeply engaged, I doubted not to be my own. ‘These ae 
preparations for his journey, the cause to which it was to be 
imputed, the hopelessness of success in the undertaking on 
which I had entered, rushed at once upon my feelings, and — 
dissolved me into a flood of tears. 

Startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk and 
turned. Thesolemn sadness that previously overspread his 
countenance gave sudden way to an attitude and look of the — iS 
most vehement astonishment. Perceiving me unable to up- 
hold myself, he stepped toward me without speaking, and 
supported me by his arm. The kindness of this action ees. 
called forth a new effusion from my eyes. Weeping was a — — 
solace to which, at that time,I had not grown familiar, and ie 


~ oe - ao. Ving Ss W~ * by eRe at SAC | ea etd ey RR te Chet le Rey Cet, YU eta er Sp rer ca et RA oe 
ee Do OY re RET 8 oe car tea aN ne aa a Baer WF vanes rae AE SES iW WY Cheat eae 
a. EP allie oe re t i Ait Ie ‘. : “Es 
Te oF 49 NM vet Cree Vie te eg . a3 : : 


rane Ane 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 
which, therefore, was peculiarly delicious. Indignation was no 
longer to be read in the features of my friend. They were preg- 
nant with a mixture of wonder and pity. Their expression 
was easily interpeted. ‘This visit and these tears were tokens 
of my penitence. The wretch whom he had stigmatized as 
incurably and obdurately wicked now showed herself suscep- 
tible of remorse, and had come to confess her guilt. 

This persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. It only 
showed me, with new evidence, the difficulty of the task 
which I had assigned myself. We were mutually silent. I 
had less power and less inclination than ever to speak. I 
extricated myself from his hold, and threw myself on a sofa. 
He placed himself by my side, and appeared to wait with im- 
patience and anxiety for some beginning of the conversation. 
What could I say? If my mind had suggested anything suit- 
able to the occasion, my utterance was suffocated by tears. 

Frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred by 
some deeree of uncertainty as to the true nature of the scene. 
At length, in faltering accents, he spoke :— 

“My friend! would to heaven I were still permitted to call 
you by that name! The image that I once adored existed 
only in my faney; but, though I cannot hope to see it real- 
ized, you may not be totally insensible to the horrors of that 
eulf into which you are about to plunge. .What heart is for- 
ever exempt from the goadings of compunction and the influx 
of laudable propensities ? 

“TI thought you accomplished and wise beyond the rest of 
women. Not a sentiment you uttered, not a look you as- 
sumed, that were not, in my apprehension, fraught with the 
sublimities of rectitude and the illuminations of genius. De- 
ceit has some bounds. Your education could not be without 


influence. A vigorous understanding cannot be utterly devoid 


of virtue; but you could not counterfeit the powers of inven- 
tion and reasoning. I was rash in my invectives. I will not 
but with life relinquish all hopes of you. Iwill shut out every 


proof that would tell me that your heart is ineurably diseased. 


146 = WIELAND; OR, 


“You come to restore me once more to happiness; to con-. 


vince me that you have torn her mask from vice, and feel 
nothing but abhorrence for the part you have hitherto acted.” 

At these words my equanimity forsook me. For a moment 
I forgot the evidence from which Pleyel’s opinions were de- 
rived, the benevolence of his remonstrances, and the grief: 


which his accents bespoke ; I was filled with indignation and — 


horror at charges so black ; I shrunk back and darted at him 


a look of disdain and anger. My passion supplied me with 


words :— ; 
“What detestable infatuation was it that led me hither ! 


Why do I patiently endure these horrible insults? ~My of-— 


fences exist only in your own distempered imagination ; you 
are leagued with the traitor who assailed my life; you have 
vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. I deserve in- 
famy for listening to calumnies so base !” 

These words were heard by Pleyel without visible resent- 
ment. His countenance relapsed into its former gloom ; but 
he did not even look at me. The ideas which had given place 
to my angry emotions returned, and once more melted me 
into tears. “Oh!” I exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, 
“what a task is mine! Compelled to hearken to charges 
which I feel to be false, but which I know to be believed by 
him that utters them ; believed, too, not without evidence, 
which, though fallacious, is not unplausible. 

‘“T came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. IJ know 
the source of your opinions. Wieland has informed me on 
what your suspicions are built. These suspicions are fostered 
by you as certainties; the tenor of my life, of all my conver- 
sations and letters, affords me no security ; every sentiment 
that my tongue and my pen have uttered bear testimony to 
the rectitude of my mind; but this testimony is rejected. I 
am condemned as brutally profligate; Iam classed with the 
stupidly and sordidly wicked. 


«And where are the proofs that must justify so foul and so 
improbable an accusation? You have overheard a midnight — 


{ 


= 2 THE PRANSFORMATION. * ees 


conference. Voices have saluted your ear, in which you im- 
agine yourself to have recognized mine and that of a detected 
villain. The sentiments expressed were not allowed to out- 
weigh the casual or concerted resemblance of voice—senti- 


~ments the reverse of all those whose influence my former life 


had attested, denoting a mind polluted by erovelling vices 
and entering into compact with that of a thief and a mur- 
derer. ‘The nature of these sentiments did not enable you to 
detect the cheat, did not_suggest to you the possibility that 
my voice had been counterfeited by another. 

“You were precipitate and prone to condemn. Instead of 
rushing on the impostors and comparing the evidence of 
sight with that of hearing, you stood aloof, or you fled. My 
innocence would not now have stood in need of vindication if 
this conduct had been pursued. That youdid not pursue it, 
your present thoughts incontestably prove. Yet this conduct 
might surely have been expected from Pleyel. That he would 
not hastily impute the blackest of crimés, that he would not 
couple my name with infamy and cover me with ruin for in- 
adequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have been ex- 
pected.” The sobs which convulsed my bosom would not 
suffer me to proceed. a 

Pleyel was for a moment affected. He looked at me with 
some expression of doubt; but this quickly gave place to a 
mournful solemnity. He fog his eyes on the floor as in rey- 
erie, and spoke :— 

“Two hours henceI am gone. Shall I carry away with me 
the sorrow that is now my guest? or shall that sorrow be ac 
cumulated \tenfold? What is she that is now before me? 


‘Shall every hour supply me with new proofs of a wickedness 


beyond example? Already I deem her the most abandoned - 
and detestable of human creatures. Her coming and her 
tears imparted a gleam of hope; but that gleam has van- 
ished.” 

He now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in ‘his | 


face trembled. ' His tone was hollow and terrible: “Thou 


Pines 2c, Mig “aileron Pye ibar eee: i ae eI te Kt 
Nae REO ee een ig Ea en AS * 


148  WIBLAND; OB, 


knowest that I was a witness of your interview, yet thou 13 
comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! Thou canst look 
me in the face and say that Iam deceived! An inscrutable 
Providence has fashioned thee for soeend. Thou wilt live, . ; 
no doubt to fulfil the purposes of thy Maker, if he repent not | 
of his workmanship and send not his vengeance to extermi- 
nate thee ere the measure of thy days be full. Surely nothing - 
in the shape of man can vie with thee! 

“But I thought I had stifled this fury. JI am not consti- 
tuted thy judge. My office is to pity and amend, and not to 
punish and revile. I deemed myself exempt from all tem- Bt 
pestuous passions. I had almost persuaded myself to weep & 
over thy fall; but I am frail as dust and mutable as water ; I a 
am calm, I am compassionate, only-in thy absence. Make a 
this house, this room, thy abode as long as thou wilt, but for- 3 
eive me if I prefer solitude for the short time during which I 
shall stay.” Saying this, he motioned as if toleave the apart- - 
ment. . Sa 

The stormy passions of this man affected me by sympathy. 

I ceased to weep. I was motionless and speechless with 
agony. I sat with my hands clasped, mutely gazing after 

him as he withdrew. I desired to detain him, but was unable 3S 
to make any effort for that purpose till he had passed out of sa 
the room. I then uttered an involuntary and piercing ery :— a 
“Pleyel! Art thou gone? Gone forever?” 

At this summons he hastily returned. He beheld me wild, 
pale, gasping for breath, and my head already sinking on my 
bosom. A painful dizziness seized me and I fainted away. 

When TI recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed in the 
outer apartment, and Pleyel with two female servants, stand- 
ing beside it. All the fury and scorn which the countenance 
of the former lately expressed had now disappeared, and was 
succeeded by the most tender anxiety. As soon ashe per- ’ 
ceived that my senses were returned to me, he clasped his * 
hands, and exclaimed, ‘‘ God be thanked ! you are once more s 
alive. I had almost despaired of your recovery. I fear I 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Here was wrought a surprising change in my friend. What 


was it that had shaken conviction so firm? Had anything oc- 


-eurred during my fit, adequate to produce so total an altera- 


tion? My attendants informed me that he had not left my 


apartment ; that the unusual duration of my fit, and the fail-— 


ure for a time of all the means used for my recovery, had 
filled him with grief and dismay. Did he regard the effect 
which his reproaches had produced as a proof of my sin- 
cerity ? 

In this state of mind, I httle regarded my languors of 


body. Irose and requested an interview with hin before 
my departure, on which I was resolved, notwithstanding his — 


earnest solicitation to spend the night at his house. He 
complied with my request. The tenderness which he had 
lately betrayed had now disappeared, and he once more re- 
lapsed into a chilling solemnity. 


I told him that I was preparing to return to my brother's; 


that I had come hither to vindicate my innocence from the 
foul aspersions which he had cast wpon it. My pride had 
not taken refuge in silence or distance. I had not relied 
upon time, or the suggestions of his cooler thoughts, to con- 
fute his charges. Conscious as I was that I was perfectly 


euiltless, and entertaining some value for his good opinion, I 
could not prevail upon myself to believe that my efforts to — 


make my innocence manifest would be fruitless.. Adverse 
appearances might be numerous and specious, but they were 
unquestionably false. I was willing to believe him sincere, 
that he made no charges which he himself did not believe ; 


but these charges were destitute of truth, The grounds of gi 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 


his opinion were fallacious, and I desired an opportunity of 
detecting their fallacy. I entreated him to be explicit, and 
to give me a detail of what he had heard and what he had 
seen, . 

At these words my companion’s countenance grew darker, 
He appeared to be struggling with his rage. He opened his 
lips to speak, but his accents died away ere they were formed. 
This conflict lasted for some minutes, but his fortitude was 
finally successful. He spoke as follows :— 

“JT would fain put an end to this hateful scene ; what I 
shall say will. be breath idly and unprofitably consumed. 
The clearest narrative will add nothing to your present 
knowledge. You are acquainted with the grounds of my 
Opinion, and yet you avow yourself innocent; why then 


should I rehearse these grounds? You are apprised of the 


character of Carwin ; why then should I enumerate the dis- 


-coyeries which I have made respecting him? Yet, since it is 


your request—since, considering the limitedness of human 
faculties, some error may possibly lurk in those appearances 
which I have witnessed—I will briefly relate what I know. 
“Need I dwell upon the impressions which your conversa- 
tion and deportment originally made upon me? We parted 
in childhood ; but our intercourse by letter was copious and 
uninterrupted. How fondly did I anticipate a meeting with 
one whom her letters had previously taught me to consider 
as the first of women, and how fully realized were the expec- 
tations that I had formed! : 
a ‘Here,’ said I, ‘is a being after whom sages may model 
their transcendent intelligence and painters their ideal beauty. 


Here is exemplified that union between intellect and form 


which has hitherto existed only in the conceptions of the poet.’ 
I have watched your eyes; my attention has hung upon 
your lips. I have questioned whether the enchantments of 
your voice were more conspicaous in the intricacies of mel- 


ody or the emphasis of rhetoric. I have marked the transi- 
tions of your discourse, the felicities of your expression, 


“WIELAND; OR, — 


your refined argumentation and glowing imagery, and been 
forced to acknowledge that all delights were meagre and con-— 3 
temptible, compared with those connected with the audience 
and sight of you. I have contemplated your principles, and 
been astonished at the solidity of their foundation and the 
perfection of their structure. I have traced you to your 
home. JI have viewed you in relation to your servants, to 
your family, to your neighbors, and to the world. I have | 
seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate the perform- 
ance of the most arduous and complicated duties ; what daily oa 
accessions of strength your judicioug discipline bestowed upon 
your memory ; what correctness and abundance of knowledge .. 
was daily experienced by your unwearied application to ae 
books and to writing. ‘If she that possesses so much in the 2 
bloom of youth will go on accumulating her stores, what,’ = 
said I, ‘is the picture she will display at a mature age ?’ 

“Vou know not the accuracy of my observation. Iwas de- 
sirous that others should profit byan example so rare IT ~ 
therefore noted down in writing every particular of yourcon- 
duct. I was anxious to benefit byan opportunity so seldom 
afforded us. I labored not to omit the slightest shade or the 4 
most petty line in your portrait. Here there was no other a. 
task incumbent on me but to copy ; there was no need to ex- 
ageerate or overlook in order to produce a more unexception- 
able pattern. Here was a combination of harmonies and 
eraces incapable of diminution or accession without injury 
to its completeness. a 

“T found no end and no bounds to my task. No display of 
a scene like this could be chargeable with redundancy or su- 
perfluity. Even the color of the shoe, the knot of a ribbon, 
or your attitude in plucking a rose, were of moment to bere. 3m 
corded. Even the arrangements of your brealkfast-table and 
your toilet have been amply displayed. ae 

“T know that mankind are more easily enticed to virtue by 
example than by precept. I know that the absoluteness of a — 
model, when supplied by invention, diminishes its salutary in- 


ee THe TRANSFORMATION. 153. 


- fiuence, since it is useless, we think, to strive after that whichwe 

know to be beyond our reach. But the picture which I drew 
was not a phantom: as a model, it was devoid of impertfec- 
tion; and to aspire to that height which had been really 
attained was by no means unreasonable. I had another and 
more interesting object in view. One existed who claimed 
all my tenderness. Here, in all its parts, was a model worthy 
of assiduous study and indefatigable imitation. I called upon 
her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould 
her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this 
pattern 

©The task was exuberant of pleasure; and I was deeply 
engaged in it, when an imp of mischief was let loose in the 
form of Carwin. I admired his powers and accomplishments. 
I did not wonder that they were admired by you. On the 
rectitude of your judgment, however, I relied to keep this ad- 
miration within discreet and scrupulous bounds. I assured 
myself that the strangeness of his deportment and the obscur- 
ity of his life would teach you caution. Of all errors, my 
knowledge of your character informed me that this was least 
likely to befall you. 

“You were powerfully affected by his first appearance ; you 
were bewitched by his countenance and his tones.*. Your de- 
scription was ardent and pathetic ; I listened to you with some 
emotions of surprise. The portrait you drew in his absence, 
and the intensity with which you mused upon it, were new 
and unexpected incidents. They bespoke a sensibility some- 
what too viyid, but from which, while subjected to the guid- 
ance of an understanding like yours, there was nothing to 
dread. | 

«A more direct intercourse took place between you. I 
need not apologize for the solicitude which I entertaified for 


your safety. He that gifted me with perception of excellence 


compelled me to loveit. In the midst of danger and pain, 


. - my contemplations have ever been cheered by your image. 
Every object in coeeu ee with you was worthless and 


oe 


trivial. No price was too great by which your safety could | 
be purchased. For that end, the sacrifice of ease, of health, 
and even of life, would cheerfully have been made by me, 
What wonder, then, that I scrutinized the sentiments and de- 3 
portment of this man with ceaseless vigilance, that I watched 
your words and your looks when he was present, and that I 


extracted cause for the deepest inquietude from every token — 4 
which you gave of having put your happiness in this man’s 4 
keeping? . | he “a 
‘‘T was cautious in deciding. I recalled the various con- ~ a 
versations in which the topies of love and marriage had been — | “5 
discussed. As a woman, young, beautiful, and independent, -e 
it behooved you to have fortified your mind with just prin- . s 
ciples on this subject. Your principles were emiuently just. _ Re 
Had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by 4 
your treatment of that specious seducer Dashwood? These Fy 
principles, I was prone to believe, exempted you from danger a 
in this new state of things. I was not the last to pay my. | 
homage to the unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and eloquence 
of this man. I have disguised, but could never stifle, the — = 
conviction that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them 4 
which rendered him truly formidable ; but I reflected on the s 
ambiguous éxpression of his countenance—an ambiguity which % 
you were the first to remark—on the cloud which obscured a 
his character, and on the suspicious nature of that conceal- a 
ment which he studied, and concluded you to be safe. I denied aa 
a, ee 


the obvious construction to appearances. . I referred your con- 

duct to some principle which had not been hitherto discloseds-> sm 

but which was reconcilable with those already known. pa: 

“T was not suffered to remain long in this suspense. One: > | 

evening, you may recollect, I came to your house, where if 
was my purpose, as usual, to lodge, somewhat earlier than 
ordinary. I spied a light in your chamber as I approached 
from the outside, and, on inquiring of Judith, was informed 
that you were writing. As your kinsman and friend and fel- 

- low-lodger, I thought Thad a right to be familiar, You were — 


aks a 
Se es 


¢ 


ns er see 


Sere Ga 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 


in your chamber ; but your employment and the time were 
such as to make if no infraction of decorum to follow you 
thither. The spirit of mischievous gayety possessed me. I 
proceeded on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance ; 
‘and I advanced softly till Twas able to overlook your shoul- 
der. 

“JT had gone thus far in error, and had no power to recede. 
How cautiously should we guard against the first inroads of 
temptation! I knew that to pry into your papers was crimi- 
nal; but I reflected that no sentiment of yours was of anature 
which made it your interest to conceal it. You wrote much 
more than you permitted your friends to peruse. My curi- 
osity was strong, and I had only to throw a glance upon the 
paper to secure its gratification. I should never have delib- 
erately committed an act like this. The slightest obstacle 
would have repelled me; but my eye glanced almost spon- 
taneously upon the paper. I caught only parts of sentences ; 
but my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the 
characters were short-hand. I lighted on the words swmmer- 
house, midnight, and made out a passage which spoke of the 
propriety and of the effects to be expected from another in- 
terview. All this passed in less than a moment. I then 
checked myself, and made myself known to you by a tap upon 
your shoulder. ‘ 

“T could pardon and account for some trifling alarm ; but 
~ your trepidation and blushes were excessive. You hurried 
the paper out of sight, and seemed too anxious to discover 
whether I\knew the contents to allow yourself to make any 
‘inquiries. I wondered at these appearances of consternation, 
but did not reason on them until I had retired. When alone, 
these incidents suggested themselves to my reflections anew. 

‘‘To what scene, or what interview, I asked, did you allude ? 
Your disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to 
the recess in the bank, your silence on my first and second 
eall, your vague answers and invincible embarrassment when : 
‘4 you at length ascended the hill, I recollected with new sur- 


WIELAND; OR, — 


prise. Could this be the summer-house alluded to? <A cer- 
tain timidity and consciousness had generally attended you, 
when this incident and this recess had been the subjects of 


conversation. Nay, I imagined that the last time that adven- 


ture was mentioned, which happened in the presence of Car- 
win, the countenance of the latter betrayed some emotion. 
Could the interview have been with him ? 


‘This was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty to con- 


templation. An interview at that hour, in this darksome re- 


treat, with a man of his mysterious but formidable character! 


—a clandestine interview, and one which you afterward en- 
deavored with so much solicitude to conceal! It was a fearful 


and portentous occurrence. I could not measure his power 
or fathom his designs. Had he rifled from you the secret of 


your love, and reconciled you to concealment and nocturnal 
meetings? I scarcely ever spent a night of more inquietude, 

“T knew not how to act. The ascertainment of this man’s 
character and views seemed to be, in the first place, neces- 
sary. Had he openly preferred his suit to you we should 
have been empowered to make direct inquiries; but, since 
he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to 
infer that his character was exceptionable. It at least sub- 
jected us to the necessity of resorting to other means of in- 
formation. Yet the improbability that you should commit a 
deed of such rashness made me reflect anew upon the insuffi- 


ciency of those.grounds on which my suspicions had been 


built, and almost to condemn myself for harboring them. 
‘Though it was mere conjecture that the interview spoken 
‘of had taken place with Carwin, yet two ideas occurred to 
involve me in the most painful doubts. This man’s reason- 
ines might be so specious, and his artifices so profound, that, 


aided by the passion which you had conceived for him, he 


had finally succeeded; or his situation might, be such as to 
justify the secrecy which you maintained. In neither case 
did my wildest reveries suggest to me that your honor had 
been forfeited. | 


pads. ould Bae tall with you on this. eulneee Tt ‘hed im- | 
é putation was false, ‘its atrociousness would have justly drawn ai 
upon me your resentment, and I must have explained wby 
what facts it had been suggested. If it were true, no benefit 
ve would follow from the mention of it. You had chosen to : 


‘conceal it for some reasons ; and, whether these reasons were __ 
true or false, it was proper to discover and remove them in 


the first place. Finally, T acquiesced in the least painful — 
supposition, trammelled as it was with perplexities—that a 
Carwin was upright, and that, if the reasons of your silence 2 

were known, they would be found to be just. 3 


CHAPTER XIV. 


«Tien days have elapsed since this occurrence. I have 
been haunted by perpetual inquietude. To bring myself to 
regard Carwin without terror, and to acquiesce in the belief 
of your safety, was impossible. Yet to put an end to my 
doubts seemed to be impracticable. If some light could be 
reflected on the actual situation of this man a direct path 
would present itself, If he were, contrary to the tenor of 
his conversation, cunning and malignant, to apprise you of 
this would be to place you in security. If he were merely 
unfortunate and innocent, most readily would I espouse his 
cause; and if his intentions were upright with regard to you, 
most eagerly would I sanctify your choice by my approbation. 

“Jt would be vain to call upon Carwin for an avowal 
of his deeds. It was better to know nothing than to be 
deceived by an artful tale. What he was unwilling to com- 
municate (and this unwillingness had been repeatedly mani- 
fested) could never be extorted from him. Importunity 
might be appeased or imposture effected by fallacious repre- 
sentations. 'To the rest of the world he was unknown, I 
had often made him the subject of discourse ; but the 
glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of their 
knowledge who knew most. None had ever seen him before, 
and all received as new the information which my intercourse 
with him in Valencia and my present intercourse enabled 
me to give. 

« Wieland was your brother. If he had really made you 
the object of his courtship, was not a brother authorized to 
interfere and demand from him the confession of his views? 
Yet what were the grounds on which I had reared this sup- — 


~ 


~ 
—_ 2 


THE TRANSFORMATION. — Sone es}, 
position ? Would they justify a measure like this? Surely 
Neb. 7 : : 
“In the course of my restless meditations, it occurred 
to me at length that my duty required me to speak to 
you, to confess the indecorum of which I had been guilty, 
and to state the reflections to which it had led me. I 
was prompted by no mean or selfish views. The heart 
within my breast was not more precious than your safety ; 
most cheerfully would I have interposed my life between 
you and danger. Would you cherish resentment at my 
conduct? When acquainted with the motive which pro- 
died it, if would not only exempt me from censure, but 
entitle me to gratitude, | 
“Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the 
newly-imported tragedy. I promised to be present. The 
state of my thoughts but little qualified me for a performer 
or auditor in such a scene; but I reflected that after it was 
finished I should return Lome with you, and should then 
enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this 
topic. My resolution was not formed without a remnant of 
- doubt as to its propriety. When I left this house to perform 
the visit I had promised, my mind was full of apprehension 
and despondeney. The dubiousness of the event of our con-_ 
versation, fear that my interference was too late to secure 
your peace, and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, 
whether I had not erred in believing you devoted to this 
man, or, at least, in imagining that he had obtained your con- 
sent to midnight conferences, distracted me with contradic- 
tory opinions and repuenant emotions. 
“7 ean assion no reason for calling at Mrs. Baynton’s. I 
had seen her in the morning, and knew her to be well. The 
concerted hour had nearly arrived, and yet I turned up the 
street which leads to her house and dismounted at her door. 
Ry entered the parlor and threw myself ina chair. I saw and 
‘inquired for no one. My whole frame was overpowered by 
: dieary and. comfortless Bebsations: One idea possessed me 


160 - SS WreLAND: OR: 


wholly ; the inexpressible importance of unveiling the de-- 
signs and character of Carwin, and the utter improbability 
that this ever would be effected. Some instinct induced me 
to lay my hand upon a newspaper. I had perused all the 
general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the 
same spot. The act was rather mechanical than voluntary. — 
“T threw a languid glance at the first column that pre- 
sented itself. The first words which I read began with the 
offer of a reward of three hundred euineas for the apprehen- 
sion of a convict under sentence of death, who had escaped 
from Newgate prison in Dublin. Good heaven! how every 
fibre of my frame tingled when I proceeded to read that the 
name of the criminal was Francis Carwin ! 
“The descriptions of his person and address were minute. 
His stature, hair, complexion, the extraordinary position and 
arrangement of his features, his awkward and disproportion- 
ate form, his gesture and gait, corresponded perfectly with 
those of our mysterious visitant. He had been found guilty 
in two indictments, one for the murder of the Lady Jane Con- 
way, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of 
the Honorable Mr. Ludloe. 
-“T repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas which 
flowed in upon my mind affected me like an instant transi- 
tion from death to life. The purpose dearest to my heart: 
was thus effected, at a time and by means the least of all 
others within the scope of my foresight. But what purpose? 
Carwin was detected. Acts of the blackest and most sordid 
euilt had been committed by him. Here was evidence which 
imparted to my understanding the most luminous certainty. 
The name, visage, and deportment were the same. Between 
the time of his escape and his appearance among us. there was 


a sufficient agreement. Such was the man with whom I sus- — 
pected you to maintain a clandestine correspondence. Should 


I not haste to snatch you from the talons of this vulture? 
Should I see you rushing to the verge of a dizzy precipice, 


cee” 


Ai ts 


need to deliberate. I thrust the paper in my pocket, and 
resolved to obtain an immediate conference with you. Fora 
time, no other image made its way to my understandine. At 
length it occurred to me, that though the information I pos- 
sessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet, if more could be ob- 
tained more was desirable. This passage was copied from a 
British paper, part of it only, perhaps, was transcribed. The 
printer was in possession of the original. 

“Toward his house I immediately turned my horse’s head. 
He produced the paper, but I found nothing more than had 
already been seen. While busy in perusing it, the printer 
stood by my side. He noticed the object of which I was 
in search. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘that is a strange affair. I should 
never have met with it had not Mr. Hallet sent to me the 
paper, with a particular request to republish that advertise- 
ment.’ 

“Mr. Hallet! What reasons could he have for making 
this request? Had the paper sent to him been accompanied 
by any information respecting the convict? Had he personal 
or extraordinary reasons for desiring its republication? This 
was to be known only in one way. I speeded to his house. 
In answer to my interrogations he told me that Ludloe had 
formerly been in America, and that during his residence in 
the city considerable intercourse had taken place between 
them. Hence a confidence arose, which has since been kept 
alive by occasional letters. He had lately received a letter 
from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract 
had been made. He put it into my hands, and pointed out 
the passages which related to Carwin. : 

““Ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and escape, 


and adds that he had reason to believe him to have embarked 


for America. He describes him, in general terms, as the most _ 


incomprehensible and formidable among men ; as engaged in | 


schemes reasonably suspected to be in the Histes! degree 
criminal, but such as no human intelligence is able to unravel ; 
that his ends are pursued by means which leave it in doubt 


THE TRANSFORMATION. ee ts 


aye ee ee at pega a is : Py cing tise Aes Aas va 3 


vr 


fe ey 


ieee call oy Bai nie ee 


162 - WIELAND; OR, 


whether he be not in league with some infernal spirit ; that 


his crimes have hitherto been perpetrated with the aid of some 
unknown but desperate accomplices ; that he wages a perpet- 
ual war against the happiness of mankind, and sets his en- 
eines of destruction at work against every object that presents 
itself. 


“This is the substance of the letter. Hallet expressed 


some surprise at the curiosity which was manifested by 
me on this occasion. I was too much absorbed by the ideas 
sugeested by this letter to pay attention to his remarks. I 
shuddered with the apprehension of the evil to which our in- 
discreet familiarity with this man had probably exposed us. 
I burned with impatience to see you, and to do what in me 
lay to avert the calamity which threatened us. It was already 
five o’clock. Night was hastening, and there was no time to 
be lost. On leaving Mr. Hallet’s house, who should meet me 
in the street but Bertrand, the servant whom I left in Ger- 
many? His appearance and accoutrements bespoke him to 
have just alighted from a toilsome and long journey. I was 
not wholly without expectation of seeing him about this time, 
but no one was then more distant from my thoughts. You 
know what reasons I have for anxiety respecting scenes with 
which this man was conversant. Carwin savas for a2 moment 
forgotten. In answer to my vehement inquiries, Bertrand 
produced a copious packet. I shall not at present mention 
its contents, nor the measures which they obliged me to 
adopt. I bestowed a brief perusal on these papers, and hav- 
ing given some directions to Bertrand, resumed my purpose 
with regard to you. My horse I was obliged to resign to my 
servant, he being charged with a commission that required 


speed. The clock had struck ten, and Mettingen was five’ 


miles distant. I was to journey thither on foot. These cir- 
cumstances only added to my expedition. 

““AsI passed swiftly along I reviewed all the poet 
accompanying the appearance and deportment of that man 


among us. Late events have been inexplicable and mysteri-— 


faa 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 163 


ous beyond any of which I have either read or heard. These 
events were coeval with Carwin’s introduction. Iam unable 
to explain their origin and mutual dependence ; but I do not, 
on that account, believe them to have a supernatural origin. 
Is not this man the agent? Some of them seem to be pro- 
pitious ; but what should I think of those threats of assassina- 
tion with which you were lately alarmed? Bloodshed is the > 
trade and horror is the element of this man. ‘T'he process by 
which the sympathies of nature are extinguished in our 
hearts, by which evil is made our good, and by which we are 
made susceptible of no activity but in the infliction and no 
joy but in the spectacle of ‘woes, is an obvious process. As 
to alliance with evil genii, the power and the malice of de- 
mons have been a thousand times exemplified in human 
beings. There are no devils but those which are begotten 
upou selfishness and reared by cunning. 

« Now, indeed, the scene was changed. It was not his 
secret poniard that I dreaded. It was only the success of his 
efforts to make you a confederate in your own destruction, to 
make your will the instrument by which he might bereave 
you of liberty and honor. 

“T took, as usual, the path through your brother’s ground, — 
I ranged with celerity and silence along the bank. I ap-— 
‘proached the fence with divides Wieland’s estate from yours. 
The recess in the bank being near this line, it being neces- 
sary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with inveter- 
ate suspicions concerning you, suspicions which were indebted 
for their strength to incidents connected with this spot, what 
wonder that it seized upon my thoughts? 

“T leaped on the fence; but before I descended on the 
opposite side I paused to survey the scene. Leaves dropping © 
“with dew and glistening in the moon’s rays, with no moving 
object to molest the deep repose, filled me with security and 


hope. I left the station at length, and tended forward. You — 


were probably at rest. How should I communicate, without 
alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? An immediate 


A eld geo vee Svat | eee ee Seo stg a hice; & ow 
HS A RP AOS AOD ee eae 
Sager cack re SB ey ee a x 


164 : WIELAND; OR, 


interview was to be procured. I could not bear to think that 
a minute should be lost by remissness or hesitation, Should 

I knock at the door? or should I stand under your chamber 

windows, which I perceived to be open, and awaken you by 

my calls ? 

“These reflections employed me as I passed opposite to the 
summer-house. I had scarcely gone by when my ear caught 
a sound unusual at this time and place. It was almost too 
faint and too transient to allow me a distinct perception of it. 
I stopped to listen ; presently it was heard again, and now it 
was somewhat ina louder key. It was laughter; and un- 
questionably produced by a female voice. That voice was 
familiar to my senses, It was yours. ; 

“Whence it came I was at a loss to conjecture ; but this 
uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. I 
threw back my eyes toward the recess. Livery other organ 
and limb was useless to me. I did not reason on the subject. 
I did not, in a direct manner, draw my conclusions from the 
hour, the place, the hilarity which this sound betokened, and 
the circumstance of having a companion, which it no less in- 
contestably proved. In an instant, as it were, my heart was 
invaded with cold, and the pulses of life at a stand. - 

“Why should I go farther? Why should lreturn? Should 
I not hurry to a distance from a sound which, though former- 
ly so sweet and delectable, was now more hideous than the 
shrieks of owls ? 

“T had no time to yield to this impulse. The thought of 
approaching and listening occurred to me. Ihad no doubt 
of which I was conscious. Yet my certainty was capable of 
increase. I was likewise stimulated by a sentiment that par- 
took of rage. I was governed by a half-formed and tempest- 
uous resolution to break in upon your interview and strike 
you dead with my upbraiding. 

“T approached with the utmost caution. When I reached 
the edge of the bank immediately above the summer-house, I 
thought I heard voices from below, as busy in conversation. 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 165 


The steps in the rock are clear of bushy impediments, They 
allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building .with- 
out being detected. Thus to lie in wait could only be justi- 
fied by the momentousness of the occasion.” 

Here Pleyel paused in his narrative and fixed his eyes upon 
me. Situated as I was, my horror and astonishment at this 
tale gave way to.compassion for the anguish which the 
countenance of my friend betrayed. I reflected on his force 
_of understanding. TI reflected on the powers of my enemy. 
I could easily divine the substance of the conversation that 
was overheard. Carwin had constructed his plot in a man- 
ner suited to the characters of those whom he had selected 
for his victims. I saw that the convictions of Pleyel were 
immutable. I forbore to struggle against the storm, be- 
cause I saw that all struggles would be fruitless. JI was 
calm ; but my calmness was the torpor of despair, and not the 
tranquillity of fortitude. It was calmness invincible by any 
thing that his grief and his fury could suggest to Pleyel. He 
resumed : 

“Woman! wilt thou hear me further? Shall Igo on to 
repeat the conversation ? Is it shame that makes thee tongue- 
tied? Shall I go on? or art thou satisfied with what has 
been already said ?” 

I bowed my head. ‘‘Go on,” said I. ‘I make not this 
request in the hope of undeceiving you. [ shall no longer 
contend with my own weakness. The storm is let loose, and 
I shall peaceably submit to be driven by its fury. But go 
on. This conference will end only with affording me a 
clearer foresight of my destiny; but that will be some satis- 
faction, and I will not part without it.” 

Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate? Did 
some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into hismind? Was 
his belief suddenly shaken by my looks, or my words, or 
by some newly-recollected circumstance? Whencesoever it 
arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation. In afew — 
minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in 


“WIELAND; OR, — 


his bosom. He proceeded with his accustomed vehe- or 
mence : Me 

‘TI hate myself for this folly. I can find no apology for this 
tale. Yet Iam irresistibly impelled to relate it. She that 
hears me is apprised of every particular. I have only to re- 
peat to her her own words. She will listen with a tran- 
quil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive me to 
some desperate act. Why, then, should I persist? yet persist 
I must.” 

Again he paused. “No!” said he; ‘it is impossible to 
repeat your avowals of love, your appeals to former confes- 
sions of your tenderness, to former deeds of dishonor, to the 
circumstances of the first interview that took place between 
you. It wason that night when I traced you to this recess. 
Thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an un- 
hallowed compact by admitting him ae 

“Great God! Thou witnessedst the agonies that tore my 
bosom at that moment! Thou witnessedst my efforts to repel 
the testimony of my ears! It was in vain that you dwelt 
upon the confusion which my unlooked-for summons excited 
in you ; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse occurred 
to you ; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had 
put an end to that charming interview ; a disappointment for 
which you endeavored to compensate yourself by the fre- 
quency and duration of subsequent meetings. 

“Tn vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only could 
be conscious ; incidents that occurred on occasions on which = 
none beside your own family were witnesses. In vain was ra 
your discourse characterized by peculiarities inimitable of | 
sentiment and language. My conviction was effected only by = 
an accumulation of the same tokens. I yielded not but to — 
evidence which took away the power to withhold my faith. 


“My sight was of no use to me. Beneath so thick an um- ~ 
brage the darkness was intense. Hearing wastheonlyavenue = 
to information which the circumstances allowed to be open, 


I was couched within three feet of you. Why should I ap- 


THE TRANSFORMATION, 


proach nearer ? ITcould not contend with your betrayer. 
What could be the purpose of a contest? You stood in no 
need of a protector. What could I do but retire from the 
spot overwhelmed with confusion and dismay? I sought my 
chamber and endeavored to regain my composure. The door 
of the house, which I found open, your subsequent entrance, 
closing, and fastening it, and going into your chamber, which 
had been thus long deserted, were only confirmations of the 
truth. : 

“Why should I paint the tempestuous fluctuation of my 
thoughts between grief and revenge, between rage and de- 
spair? - Why should I repeat my vows of eternal implacability 
and persecution, and the speedy recantation of these vows? 

“T have said enough. You have dismissed me from a 
place in your esteem. What I think and what I feel is of no 
importance in your eyes. May the duty which I owe myself 
enable me to forget your existence! Ina few minutes I go 
hence. Be the maker of your fortune; and may adversity 
instruct you in that wisdom which education was unable to 
impart to you!” 

Those were the last words which Pleyel intiared He left 
the room, and my new emotions enabled me to witness his 
departure without any apparent loss of composure. As Isat 
alone I ruminated on these incidents. Nothing was more 
evident than that I had taken eternal leave of happiness. “Life 
was a worthless thing, separate from that good which had 
now been wrested from me ; yet the sentiment that now pos- 
sessed me had no tendency to palsy my exertions and over- 
bear my strength. I noticed that the light was declining, and 
perceived the propriety of leaving the house. I placed myself 
again in the chaise, and returned slowly toward the city. 


CHAPTER XV. 


BeroreE I reached the city it was dusk. It was my purpose 
‘to spend the night at Mettingen. I was not solicitous, as long 
as I was attended by a faithful servant, to be there at an early 
hour. My exhausted strength required me to take some re- 
freshment. With this in view and in order.to pay my respects 
to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, I stopped at 
Mrs. Baynton’s. She was absent from home; but I had scarcely 
entered the house when one of her domestics presented me a 
letter. I opened, and read as follows: 


To Ciara WIELAND. 

What shall I say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? 
It is my duty to repair it to the utmost of my power; but the 
only way in which it can be repaired you will not, I fear, be 
prevailed on to adopt. It is by granting me an interview, at 
your own house, at eleven o’clock this night. I have no means 
of removing any fears that you may entertain of my designs, 
but my simple and solemn declarations. These, after what 
has passed between us, you may deem unworthy of confidence. 
T cannot help it. My folly and rashness have left me no 
other resource. I will be at your door at that hour. If you 
choose to admit me to a conference, provided that conference 
has no witnesses, I will disclose to you particulars the knowl- 
edge of which is of the utmost importance to your happiness. 

Farewell, Carwin. 


What a letter is this! A man known to be an assassin and 
robber, one capable of plotting against my life and my fame, 
dotected lurking in my chamber and avowing designs the 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 169 


most flagitious and dreadful, now solicits me to grant him a 
midnight interview !—to admit him alone into my presence! 
Could he make this request with the expectation of my com- 
-pliance? What had he seen in me that could justify him in 
admitting so wilda belief? Yet this request is preferred with 
the utmost gravity. It is not accompanied by an appearance 
of uncommon earnestness. Had the misconduct to which he 
alludes been a slight incivility; and the interview requested to 
take place in the midst of my friends, there would have been 
no extravagance in the tenor of this letter ; but, as it was, the 
writer had surely been bereft of his reason. 

I perused this epistle frequently. The request it contained 
might be called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a 
different person ; but from Carwin, who could not be unaware 
of the effect which it must naturally produce, and of the man- 
ner in which it would unavoidably be treated, it was perfectly 
inexplicable. He must have counted on the success of some 
plot, in order to extort my assent. None of those motives by 
which I am usually governed would ever have persuaded me 
to meet any one of his sex at the time and place which he had 
prescribed. Much less would I consent to a meeting with a 
man ‘tainted with the most detestable crimes, and by whose 

arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered and 
my happiness irretrievably destroyed. I shuddered at the 
idea that such a meeting was possible. I felt some reluct- 
ance to approach a spot which he still visited and haunted. 

Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the 
perusal of the letter. Meanwhile I resumed my journey. My 
thoughts still dwelt upon the same topic. Gradually, from 
ruminating on this epistle I reverted to my interview with 
Pleyel. I recalled the particulars of the dialogue to which he 
had been an auditor. My heart sank anew on viewing the 
inextricable complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious 
concurrence of events which tended to confirm him in his 
error. When he approached my chamber door my terror 
kept me mute. He put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but 


“WIELAND; OR, — 


it caught the sound of nothing human. Had I called, or 
made any token that denoted some one to be within, words 
would have ensued ; and, as omnipresence was impossible, 
this discovery, and the artless narrative of what had just 
passed, would have saved me from: his murderous invectives. 
He went into his chamber, and, after some interval, I stole 
across the entry and down the stairs with inaudible steps. 
Having secured the outer doors, I returned with less cireum- 
spection. He heard me not when I descended; but my re- 
turning steps were easily distinguished. Now, he thought, 
was the guilty interview at an end. In what other way was 
it possible for him to construe these signals ? 

How fallacious and precipitate was my decision ! ! Carwin’s 
plot owed its success to a coincidence of events scarcely cred- 
ible. The balance was swayed from its equipoise by a hair. 
Had I even begun the conversation with an account of what 
befell me in my chamber my previous interview with Wieland 
would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if I 
were discoursing with this ruffian when Pleyel touched the 
lock of my chamber door, and when he shut his own door 
with so much violence, how, he might ask, should I be able to 
relate these incidents? Perhaps he-had withheld the knowl- 
edge of these circumstances from my brother, from whom, 
therefore, I could not obtain it, so that my innocence would 
have thus been irresistibly demonstrated. 


The first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to re- 
turn upon my steps and demand once more an interview. 


But he was gone; his parting declarations were remembered. 

“Pleyel,” I exclaimed, “thou art gone forever! Are thy 
mistakes beyond the reach of detection? Am I helpless in 
the midst of this snare? The plotter is at hand. He even 


speaks in the style of penitence. He solicits an interview 
which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something — 


momentous to my happiness. What can he say which will 
avail to turn aside this evil? But why should his remorse be 


feigned? I have done him no injury. His wickedness is _ 


THE TRANSFORMA TION Oo ATL 


fertile only of despair ; and the billows of remorse will some 


time overbear him. Why may not this event have already 
taken place? Why should I refuse to see him?” 

This idea was present, as it were, fora moment. I sudden- 
ly recoiled from it, confounded at that frenzy which could 
give even momentary harbor to such a scheme ; yet presently 
it returned. At length I even conceived it to deserve de- 
liberation. I questioned whether it was not proper to admit, 
at a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of tremendous 
and inscrutable attributes, this performer of horrid deeds, 
and whose presence was predicted to call down unheard-of 
and unutterable horrors. 

What was it that swayed me? I felt myself divested of 
the power to will contrary to the motives that determined me 
to seek his presence. My mind seemed to be split into 
separate parts, and these parts to have entered into furious 
and implacable contention. These tumults gradually sub- 
sided. The reasons why I should confide in that interposition 
which had hitherto defended me, in those tokens of com- 
punction which this letter contained, in the efficacy of this 


interview to restore its spotlessness to my character and banish 


all illusions from the mind of my friend, continually acquired 
new evidence and new strength. 

What should I fear in his presence? This was unlike: an 
artifice intended to betray me into his hands. If it were an 
artifice, what purpose would it serve? The freedom of my mind 
was untouched, and that freedom would defy the assaults of 
blandishments or magic. Force I was not able to repel. On 
the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the 
imminent approach of danger; but then I had not. enjoyed 
opportunities of deliberation ; I had foreseen nothing ; I was 
sunk into imbecility by my previous thoughts ; I had been 


the victim of recent disappointments and anticipated ills. 


Witness my infatuation in opening the closet in opposition to 


divine injunctions. 


Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less 


WIELAND (OR. 2 ee Cee 


erring principle. Pleyel was forever lost to me. I strove in. 


vain to assume his person and suppress my resentment; I 
strove in vain to believe in the assuaging influence of time, to 
look forward to the birthday of new hopes, and the re-exalta- 
tion of that luminary of whose effulgencies I had so long and 
so liberally partaken. ; 

What had I to suffer worse than was already inflicted ? 

Was not Carwin my foe? I owed my untimely fate to his 
treason. Instead of flying from his presence, ought I not to 
devote all my faculties to the gaining of an interview, and 
compel lim to repair the ills of which he has been the author? 
Why should I suppose him impregnable to argument? Have 
I not reason on my side, and the power of imparting convic- 
tion? Cannot he be made to see the justice of unravelling 
the maze in which Pleyel is bewildered ? 

He may, at least, be accessible to fear. Hag he nothing to 
fear from the rage of an injured woman? But suppose him 
inaccessible to such inducements; suppose him to persist in 
all his flagitious purposes, are not the means of defence and 
resistance in my power ? 

In the progress of such thoughts was the resolution at last 
formed. I hoped that the interview was sought by him for a 
laudable end; but, be that as it would, I trusted that, by 
energy of reasoning or of action, I should render it auspicious, 
or at least harmless. | . 

Such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. The 
poet's chaos was no unapt emblem of the state of my mind. 
A torment was awakened in my bosom, which I foresaw would 
end only when this interview was past and its consequences 
fully experienced. Hence my impatience for the arriyal of 
the hour which had been prescribed by Carwin. 

Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. 
New impediments to the execution of the scheme were speedily 
suggested. I had apprised Catharine of my intention to 


spend this and many future nights with her. Her husband 


was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved 


<a we 


it. Eleven o’clock exceeded their hour of retiring. What 
excuse should I form for changing my plan? Should I show 
this letter to Wieland and submit myself to his direction ? 
But I knew in what way he would decide. He would fervently 
dissuade me from going. Nay, would he not do more? He 
was apprised of the offences of Carwin, and of the reward 
offered for his apprehension. Would he not seize this oppor- 
tunity of executing justice on a criminal ? 

This idea was new. I was plunged once more into doubt. 
Did not equity enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? No. 
I disdained the office of betrayer. Carwin was unapprised of 
his danger, and his intentions were possibly beneficent. 
Should I station guards about the house, and make an act 
intended perhaps for my benefit instrumental to his own de- 
struction? Wieland might be justified in thus employing the © 
knowledge which I should impart ; but I, by imparting it, 
should pollute myself with more hateful crimes than those 
undeservedly imputed to me. This scheme, therefore, I un- 
hesitatinely rejected. The views with which I should return 
to my own house it would therefore be necessary to conceal. 
Yet some pretext must be invented. I had never been initi- 
ated into the trade of lying. Yet what but falsehood was a 
deliberate suppression of the truth? To deceive by silence 
or by words is the same. 

Yet what would alie avail me? What pretext would justify 
this change in my plan? Would it not tend to confirm the 
imputations of Pleyel? That I should voluntarily return to a 
house in which honor and life had so lately been endangered 
could be explained in no way favorable to my integrity. 

These reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended 
my decision. In this state of uncertainty I alighted at the 
hut. We gave this name to the house tenanted by the farmer 
and his servants, and which was situated on the verge of my 
brother’s ground, and at a considerable distance from the 
mansion. The path to the mansion was planted by a double 
row of walnuts, Along this path I proceeded alone. I 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 7 


es 


bei get  WILAND; OR, 


entered the parlor, in which was a light just expiring in the 
socket. There was no one in the room. I perceived by the 
clock that stood against the wall that it was near eleven. 
The lateness of the hour startled me. What had become 
of the family? They were usually retired an hour before 
this; but the unextinguished taper and the unbarred door 
were indications that they had not retired. I again returned 
to the hall, and passed from one room to another, but still 
encountered not a human being. 


Timagined that perhaps the lapse of a few minutes would. 
explain these appearances. Meanwhile, I reflected that the 


preconcerted hour had arrived. Carwin was perhaps waiting 
my approach. Should I immediately retire to my own house, 
no one would be apprised of my proceeding. Nay, the inter- 
view might pass, and I be enabled to return in half an hour. 
Hence no necessity would arise for dissimulation. 

I was so far influenced by these views that [rose to execute 
this design ; but again the unusual condition of the house oc- 
curred to me, and some vacue solicitude as to the condition 
of the fanmmily. I was nearly certain that my brother had not 
retired ; but by what motives he could be induced to desert 
his house thus unseasonably I could by no means divine. 
Louisa Conway, at least, was at home, and had probably re- 
tired to her chamber—perhaps she was able to impart the 
information I wanted. 

I went to her chamber and found her asleep. She was de- 
lighted and surprised at my arrival, and toid me with how 
much impatience and anxiety my brother and his wife had 
awaited my coming. They were fearful that some mishap 
had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the usual 
period. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Catharine 
would not resien the hope of seeing me. Louisa said she had 
left them both in the parlor, and she: knew of no cause for 
their absence. 

As yet I was not without solicitude on account of their 
‘personal safety. I was far from being perfectly at ease on 


THE TRANSFORMATION. iS 


that head, but entertained no distinct conception of the 
danger that impended over them. Perhaps, to beguile the 
moments of my long-protracted stay, they had gone to walk 
upon the bank. The atmosphere, though illuminated only 
by the starlight, was remarkably serene. Meanwhile, the de- 
sirableness of an interview with Carwin again returned, and I 
finally resolved to seek it. 

I passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. 
My dwelling, seen at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. It 
had no inhabitant ; for my servant, in consequence of my new _ 
arrangement, had gone to Mettingen. The temerity of this 
attempt began to show itself in more vivid colors to my 
understanding. Whoever has pointed steel is not without 
arms; yet what must have been the state of my mind when 
I could meditate, without shuddering, on the use of a murder- 
ous weapon, and believe myself secure merely because I was 
capable of being made so by the death of another! Yet this 
was not my state. I felt as if I was rushing into deadly toils 
without the power of pausing or receding. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


As soon as I arrived in sight of the front of the house, my 
attention was excited by a light from the window of my own 


chamber. No appearance could be less explicable. A meet- 


ing was expected with Carwin ; but that he preoccupied my 
chamber and had supplied himself with light was not to be 
believed. What motive could influence him to adopt this 
conduct? Could I proceed until this was explained? Per- 
haps, if I should proceed to a distance in front, some one 
would be visible. A sidelong but feeble beam from the win- 
dow fell upon the piny copse which skirted the bank. As I 
eyed it, it suddenly became mutable, and, after flitting to and 
fro for a short time it vanished. Iturned my eye again to- 
ward the window, and perceived that the light was still there ; 
but the change which I had noticed was occasioned by a 
change in the position of the lamp or candle within. Hence, 
that some person was there was an unavoidable inference. 

I paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing. 
Might I not advance cautiously, and, therefore, without dan- 


ger? Might I not knock at the door, or call, and be apprised - 


of the nature of my visitant before Ientered? I approached 
and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. I knocked 
at first timidly, but afterward with loudness. My signals 
were unnoticed. Istepped back and looked, but the light 
was no longer discernible. Wasit suddenly extinguished by 


a human agent? What purpose but concealment was in- 


tended? Why was the illumination produced, to be thus sud- 
denly brought to an end? And why, since some one was 
there, had silence been observed ? 


These were questions the solution of which may be readily — 


* 
ives 
=a 


s he a c 
Pe Pie. oe ‘ re oy f 
5 Oe a ee ee ey ee ge 


on ae a 


sof tN ea 


supposed to be entangled with danger. Would not this danger, 
when measured by a woman’s fears, expand into gigantic 
dimensions? Menaces of death ; the stunning exertions of a 
warning voice ; the known and unknown attributes of Carwin ; 


our recent interview in this chamber ; the preappointment of — 


a meeting at this place and hour,—all thronged into my mem- 
ory. What was to be done? 

Courage is no definite or steadfast principle. Let that man 
who shall purpose to assign motives to the actions of another 
blush at his folly and forbear. Not more presumptuous would 
it be to attempt the classification of all nature and the scan- 
ning of Supreme intelligence. I gazed for a minute at the 
window, and fixed my eyes, for a second, minute, on the 
ground, I drew forth from my pocket, and opened, a pen- 
knife. “This” said I, “be my safeguard and avenger. The 
assailant shall perish or I myself shall fall.” 

I had locked up the house in the morning, but had the key 
of the kitchen door in my pocket. I therefore determined to 
gain access behind. Thither I hastened, unlocked and entered. 
all was lonely, darksome, and waste. Familiar as I was with 
every part of my dwelling, I easily found my Way toa closet, 
drew forth a taper, a flint, tinder, and steel, and ina moment, 
as it were, gave myself the guidance and protection « of light. 

What purpose did I meditate? Should I explore my way to 
my chamber, and confront the being who had dared to intrude 


into this recess and had labored for concealment? By put- 


ting out the light did he seek to hide himself, or mean only 
to cirgumvent my incautious steps? Yet was it not more 
probable that he desired my absence by thus encouraging the 
supposition that the house was unoccupied? I would see 
this man in spite of all impediments ; ere I died, I would see 
his face, and summon him to penitence and retribution ; no 


matter at what cost an interview was purchased. Reputation : 
and life might be wrested from me by another, but my recti- — 


tude and honor were in my own keeping, and were safe. 


THE TRANSFORMATION.  ==°—sViT 


I proceeded to the foot of the stairs. At such a crisis my 


fy 


eA ay cape 


178 "WIELAND; OR, 


thoughts may be supposed at no liberty to range ; yet vacue 
images rushed into my mind of the mysterious interposition 
which had been experienced on the last night. My case at 
present was not dissimilar ; and, if my angel were not weary 
of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be ex- 


pected? Who could say whether his silence were ascribable _ 


to the absence of danger, or to his own absence, 

In this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept 
through my veins ; that my pause was prolonged; and that 
a fearful glance was thrown backward. 

Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated ; my 
ideas are vivid, but my language is faint: now know I whatit 
is to entertain incommunicable sentiments. The chain of sub- 
sequent incidents is drawn throngh my mind, and, being 
linked with those which forewent, by turns rouse up agonies 
and sink me into hopelessness. 

Yet I will persist to the end. My eee may be invaded 
by inaccuracy and confusion ; but, if I live no longer, I will, 
at least, live to complete it. What but ambiguities, abrupt- 
nesses, and dark transitions can be expected from the histo- 
rian who is, at.the same time, the sufferer of these disasters ? 


I have said that I cast a look behind. Some object was ex- 


pected to be seen, or why should I gaze in that direction? 
Two senses were at once assailed. The same piercing exela- 
mation of “ fold! hold!” was uttered within. the same dis- 
tance of my ear. This it was that [heard. The airy undulation, 
and the shock given to my nerves, were real. Whether the 


spectacle which I beheld existed in my faney or without might 


be doubted. 
I had not closed the door of the apartment I had just left. 
The staircase, at the foot of which I stood, was eight or ten 
feet from the door, and attached to the wall through which the 
door led. My view, therefore, was sidelong, and took in no 
part of the room. 
Through this aperture was a head thrust and drawn back 
with so much swiftness that the immediate conviction was, 


ee i ee - c 
So nes Seeks Pe gee 


*% 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 179 


that thus much of a form ordinarily invisible had been un- 
shrouded. The face was turned toward me. Every muscle 
was tense; the forehead and brows were drawn into vehe- 
ment expression ; the lips were stretched as in the act of 
shrieking and the eyes emitted sparks, which, no doubt, if I 
had been unattended bya light, would have illuminated like 
the coruscations of a meteor. ‘The sound and the vision were 
present, and departed together at the same instant; but the 
cry was blown into my ear, while the face was many paces 
distant. 

This face was well suited to a being whose performances 
exceeded the standard of humanity ; and yet its features were 
akin to those I had before seen. The image of Carwin was 
blended in a thousand ways with the stream of my thoughts. 
This visage was, perhaps, portrayed by my fancy. If so, it 
will excite no surprise that some of his lineaments were now 
discovered. Yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and 
were lost amid the blaze of opposite qualities. 

What conclusion could I form? Be the face human or 
not, the intimation was imparted from above. Experience 
had evinced the benignity of that being who gave it. Once 
he had interposed to shield me from harm, and. subsequent 
events demonstrated the usefulness of that interposition. 
Now was I again warned to forbear. I was hurrying to the 
verge of the same gulf, and the same power was exerted to 
recall my steps. Was it possible for me not to obey? Was 
I capable of holding on in the same perilous career? Yes. 
Even of this I was capable ! 

The intimation was imperfect; it gave no form to my 
danger and prescribed no limits to my caution. I had 
formerly neglected it, and yet escaped. Might I not trust 
to the same issue? This idea micht possess, though im- ~ 
perceptibly, some influence. I persisted ; but it was not~ 
merely on this account. I cannot delineate the motives that 
led me on. I now speak as if no remnant of doubt existed 
in my mind as to the supernatural origin of these sounds ; 


ai 


but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for 
I only mean that the belief was more permanent and visited 
more frequently my sober meditations than its opposite. 
‘The immediate effects served only to undermine the founda- 
tions of my judgment and precipitate my resolutions. 

I must either advance or return. I chose the former, and 
began to ascend the stairs. The silence underwent no second 
interruption. My chamber door was closed, but unlocked, 
and, aided by vehement efforts of my courage, I opened and 
looked in. eee 

No hideous or uncommon object was discernible. The 
danger, indeed, might easily have lurked out of sight, have — 
sprung upon me as I entered, and have rent me with his iron 
talons ; but I was blind to this fate, and advanced, though 
cautiously, into the room. ; 

Still, everything wore its accustomed aspect. Neither 
lamp nor candle was to be found. Now, for the first time, 
suspicions were suggested as to the nature of the light which 
I had seen. Was it possible to have been the companion of : 
that supernatural visage ; a meteorous refulgence producible ee a 
at the will of him to whom that visage belonged, and. par- < 
taking of the nature of that which accompanied my father’s 
death ? . 3 

The closet was near, and I remembered the complicated < — 
horrors of which it had been productive. Here, perhaps, | 
was inclosed the source of my peril and the gratification of 
my curiosity. Should I adventure once more to explore its— 
recesses? This was a resolution not easily formed. I was | 
suspended in thought, when, glancing my eye on a table, E  ~ 
perceived a written paper. Carwin’s hand was instantly 
recognized, and, snatching up the paper, I read as follows : a‘ 

“There was folly in expecting your compliance with my a4 
invitation. Judge how I was disappointed in finding another ~ 
in your place. Ihave waited, but to wait any longer would 
be peritous. I shall still seek an interview, but it must be at 
a different time and place ; meanwhile, I will write this—Ho 


= 


: 


= 


- ‘HH TRANSFORMATION. = ‘181 


will you bear—how inexplicable will be this transaction !|— 
An event so unexpected—a sight so horrible!” 

Such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. The ink 
was yet moist; the hand was that of Carwin. Hence it was 
to be inferred that he had this moment left the apartment, or 
was still in it. Ilooked back, on the sudden expectation of 
seeing him behind me. | 

What other did he mean? What transaction had taken 
place adverse to my expectations? What sight was about to 
be exhibited? Ilooked around me once more, but saw noth- 
ing which indicated strangeness. Again I remembered the 
closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these 
mysteries. Here, perhaps, was inclosed the scene destined 
to awaken my horrors and baffle my foresight. | 

I have already said that the entrance into this closet wa 
beside my bed, which, on two sides, was closely shrouded by 
curtains. On that side nearest the closet the curtain was 
raised. As I passed along I cast my eye thither. I started, 
and looked again. I bore a light in my hand, and brought it 
nearer my eyes, in order to dispel any illusive mists that 
might have hovered before them. Once more I fixed my eyes 
upon the bed, in hopes that this more steadfast scrutiny 
would annihilate the object which before seemed to be there. 

This, then, was the sight ‘which Carwin had predicted l 
This was the event which my understanding was to find inex- 
plicable! This was the fate which had been reserved for me, 
but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen another ! 

I had not been terrified by empty menaces. Violation and 
death awaited my entrance into this chamber. Some inscrut- 
able chance had led her hither before me, and the merciless — 
fangs of which I was designed to be the prey had mistaken 
their victim, and had fixed themselves in her heart. But 
where was my safety ?. Was the mischief exhausted or flown ?- 
The steps of the assassin had just been here ; they could not 
be far off ; in a moment he would rush into my presence, and I _ 
should perish under the same polluting and suffocating grasp | 


WIELAND; or, 


My frame shook, and my knees were unable to support me, 
I gazed alternately at the closet door and at the door of my 
‘room. At one of these avenues would enter the exterminator 
of my honor and my life. I was prepared for defence ; but 
now, that danger was imminent, my means of defence and my 
power to use them were gone. I was not qualified by educa- 
tion and experience to encounter perils like these ; or perhaps 
I was powerless because I was again assaulted by surprise, 
and had not fortified my mind by foresight and previous re- 
flection against a scene like this, 

Fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflections 
on the scene before me. I fixed my eyes upon her counte- 
nance. My sister’s well-known and beloved features could not 
be concealed by convulsion or lividness. What direful il- 
lusion led thee hither? Bereft of thee, what hold on hap- 
piness remains to thy offspring and thy spouse? ‘To lose 
thee by a common fate would have been sufficiently hard ; 
but thus suddenly to perish—to become the prey of this 
ghastly death! How will a spectacle like this be endured by 
Wieland? To die beneath his grasp would not satisfy thy 
enemy. This was mercy to the evils which he previously 
made thee suffer! After these evils death was a boon which 
thou besoughtest him to grant. He entertained no enmity 
against thee ; I was the object of his treason; but by some 
tremendous mistake his fury was misplaced. But how comest 
thou hither? and where was Wieland in thy hour of distress? 

I approached the corpse ; I lifted the still flexible hand, 
and kissed the lips which were breathless. Her flowing 
drapery was discomposed. I restored it to order, and, seat- 
ing myself on the bed, again fixed steadfast eyes upon her 
countenance. I cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations 
of that moment. I saw confusedly, but forcibly, that every 
hope was extinguished with the life of Catharine. All hap- 
piness and dignity must henceforth be banished from the 
house and name of Wieland ; all that remained was to linger 
out in agonies a short existence and leave to the world RY 


cant a Peceuiatls possession. . Ae now, severed from ie com- 

_ panion of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my. 
‘cares, and my wishes, I was like one set afloat upon a stormy — 
ee diancing his safety upon a plank; night was closing — 
upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his | 
hold and overwhelmed him forever. — pa 


et 


CHAPTER XVIL 


I nap no inclination nor power to move from this spot. 


For more than an hour my faculties and limbs seemed to be 


deprived of all activity. The door below creaked on its 
hinges, and steps ascended the stairs. My wandering and 
confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these sounds, 
and, dropping the curtain of the bed, I moved toa part of 


the room where anyone who entered should be visible ; such 


are the vibrations of sentiment, that, notwithstanding the 
seeming fulfilment of my fears and increase of my danger, I 
was conscious, on this occasion, to no turbulence but that of 
curiosity. 
At length he entered the apartment, and I recognized my 


brother. It was the same Wieland whom I had ever seen. 


Yet his features were pervaded by a new expression. I sup- 
posed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife, and his 
appearance confirmed this persuasion. A-brow expanding 
into exultation I had hitherto never seen in him; yet sucha 
brow did he now wear. Not only was he unapprised of the 
disaster that had happened, but some joyous occurrence had 
betided. What a reverse was preparing to annihilate his 


transitory bliss! No husband ever doted more fondly, for 


no wife ever claimed so boundless a devotion. I was not un- 
certain as to the effects to flow from the discovery of her fate. 
I confided not at all in the efforts of his reason or his piety. 
There were few evils which his modes of thinking would not 
disarm of their sting; but here all opiates to grief and all 


compellers of patience were vain. This spectacle would be _ 
unavoidably followed by the outrages of desperation and a 


rushing to death. 


For the present, I neglected to ask myself what motive 


| brought him hither. Iwas only fearful of the effects to flow 


i 


from the sight of the dead. Yet could it be long concealed 
from him? Some time, and speedily, he would obtain this 
knowledge. No stratagems could considerably or usefully 
prolong his ignorance. All that could be sought was to take 
away the abruptness of the change, and shut out the confusion 
of despair and the inroads of madness; but I knew my 
brother, and knew that all exertions to console him would be 
fruitless. 

What could I say? I was mute, and poured forth those 
tears on his account which my own unhappiness had been 
unable to extort. In the midst of my tears, I was not unob- 
servant of his motions. These were ofa nature to rouse some 
other sentiment than grief, or, at least, to mix with it a por- 
tion of astonishment. | 

His countenance suddenly became troubled. His hands 
were clasped with a force that left the print of his nails in his 
flesh. His eyes were fixed on my feet. His brain seemed to 
swell beyond its continent. He did not cease to breathe, but 
his breath was stifled into groans. I had never witnessed the 
hurricane of human passions. My element had, till lately, 
been all sunshine and calm. Iwas unconversant with the- 
altitudes and energies of sentiment, and was transfixed with 
inexplicable horror by the symptoms which I now beheld. 

After a silence and a conflict which I could not interpret, 


he lifted his eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, 


“his is too much! any victim but this, and thy will be done. 
Have I not sufficiently attested my faith and my obedience ? 
She that is gone, they that have perished, were linked with 
my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken ; 
but here is sanctity and excellence surpassing human. This 


workmanship is thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it 


into ruins.” . | 
Here, suddenly unelasping his hands, he struck one of them 
against his forehead, and continued : “Wretch! who made 


186 “WIELAND; OR, 
thee quicksighted in the councils of thy Maker? Deliverance 
from mortal fetters is awarded to this being, and thou art the 
minister of this decree.” 

So saying, Wieland advanced toward me. His words and 
his motions were without meaning, except on one supposi- 
tion. The death of Catharine was already known to him, and 
that knowledge, as might have been suspected, had destroyed 
his reason. I had feared nothing less; but, now that I beheld 


the extinction of a mind the most luminous and penetrat- 


ing that ever dignified the human form, my sensations were 
fraught with new and insupportable anguish. | 

I had not time to reflect in what way my own safety would 
be affected by this revolution, or what I had to dread from 
the wild conceptions of a madman. He advanced toward 
me. Some hollow noises were wafted by the breeze. Con- 
fused clamors were succeeded by many feet traversing the 
grass and then crowding into the piazza. 

These sounds suspended my brother’s purpose, and he 
stood to listen. The signals multiplied and grew louder ; 
perceiving this, he turned from me, and hurried out of my 
sight. All about me was pregnant with motives to astonish- 
ment. My sister’s corpse, Wieland’s frantic demeanor, and, 
at length, this crowd of visitants, so little accorded with my 
foresight, that my mental progress was stopped. The im- 
pulse had ceased which was accustomed to give motion and 
order to my thoughts. 

Footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently many 
faces showed themselves within the door of my apartment. 
These looks were full of alarm and watchfulness. They pried 
into corners as if in search of some fugitive ; next their gaze 
was fixed upon me, and betokened all the vehemence of ter- 
ror and pity. For a time I questioned whether these were 
not shapes and faces like that which I had seen at the bot- 
tom of the stairs, creatures of my fancy or airy existences. 


My eye wandered from one to anothez, till at length it fell — 


on a countenance which I weil knew. It was that of Mr. 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 187 


Hallet. This man was a distant kinsman of my mother, 
venerable for his age, his uprightness and sagacity. He had 
long discharged the functions of a magistrate and good citi- 
zen. If any terrors remained, his presence was sufficient to 
dispel them. 

He approached, took my hand with a compassionate air, 
and ‘said, in a low voice, ‘‘ Where, my dear Clara, are your 
brother and sister?” I made no answer, but pointed to the 
bed. His attendants drew aside the curtain, and, while their 
eyes glared with horror at the spectacle which they beheld, 
those of Mr. Hallet overflowed with tears. 

After considerable pause, he once more turned to me: 
“My dear girl, this sight is not for you. Can you confide in 
my care and that of Mrs. Baynton’s? We will see all per- 
formed that circumstances require.” a 

I made strenuous opposition to this request. I insisted on 
remaining near her till she was interred. His remon- 
strances, however, and my own feelings, showed me the pro- 

priety of a temporary dereliction. Louisa stood in need of a 
comforter, and my brother’s children of a nurse. My un- 
happy brother was himself an object of solicitude and care. 
At length I consented to relinquish the corpse, and go to my 
brother’s, whose house, I said, would need a mistress, and 
his children a parent. During this discourse, my venerable: 
friend struggled with his tears, but my last~intimation called 
them forth with fresh violence. Meanwhile, his attendants 
stood around in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each 
other. I repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it ; but 
he took my hand to detain me. His countenance betrayed 
iresolution and reluctance. I requested him to state the 
reason of his opposition to this measure. I entreated him 
to be explicit. I told him that my brother had just been 
there, and that I knew his condition. This misfortune had 
driven him to madness, and his offspring must want a pro- 
e. tector, ‘If he chose, I would resign Wieland to his care ; but 
ae, his innocent and helpless babes stood in instant need of 


; ee 


WIELAND; OR 


nurse and mother, and these offices I would by no means al- 
low another to perform while I had life. : ‘. 

Every word that I uttered seemed to augment his perplex- 2 
ity and distress. At last he said, “1 think, Clara, I have en- 
titled myself to some regard from you. You have professed 
your willingness to oblige me. Now I call upon you to con- 4 
fer upon me the highest obligation in your power. Permit 
Mrs. Baynton to have the management of your brother’s house 
for two or three days; then it shall be yours to act in it as 
you please. No matter what are my motives in making tlis— 
request ; perhaps I think your age, your sex, or the distress — 
which this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you for the 
office. Surely you have no doubt of Mrs. Baynton’s tender- ia 
ness or discretion.” | : ans 

New ideas now rushed into my mind. I fixed my eyes ~ 
steadfastly on My. Hallet. “Are they well?” said I “Is ae 
Louisa well? Are Benjamin, and William, aud Constantine, : 
and little Clara, are they safe? Tell me truly, I beseech 
you!” ag 

“They are well,” he replied ; “they are perfectly safe.” 

‘Bear no effeminate weakness in me; 1 can bear to hear 
the truth. Tell me truly, are they well?” 

He again assured me that they were well. 

«“ What, then,” resumed I, ‘do you fear? Is it possible 
for any calamity to disqualify me for performing my duty sae 
to these helpless innocents? I am willing to divide the care Gee 


ee 


of them with Mrs, Baynton ; I shall be grateful for her sympa- * 
thy and aid; but what should I be to desert them at an hour 
like this?” 3 Pe 


I will cut short this distressful dialogue. I still persisted — 
in my purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. This s 
excited my suspicions anew: but these were removed by ~ 
solemn declarations of their safety. I could not explain this ty 
conduct in my friend, but. at length consented to go to the he 
city, provided I should see them for a few minutes at pr esc . 
and should return on the morrow. 


THE TRANSFORMATION. ean TB: 


Even this arrangement was objected to. At length he told 
me they were removed to the city. Why were they removed, 


_Lasked, and whither? My importunities would not now be 


eluded. My suspicions were roused, and no evasion or arti- 
fice was sufficient to allay them. Many of the audience began 
to give vent to their emotions in tears. Mr. Hallett himself 
seemed as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained. 
Something whispered to my heart that havoc had been wider 
thar I now witnessed. I suspected this concealment to arise 
from apprehensions of the effects which a knowledge of the 


‘truth would produce in me. I once more entreated him to 


inform me truly of their state. To enforce my entreaties, I 
put on an air of insensibility. “I can suess,” said I, *¢ what 
has happened: they are indeed beyond the reach of injury, 
for they are dead? Is it not so?” My voice faltered in spite 
of my courageous efforts. | 

“ Yes,” said he, “ they are dead! Dead by the same fate, 
and by the same hand, with their mother !” 

“Dead!” replied I; “ what! all?” 

“All!” replied he; ‘he spared not one!” 

Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. 
Why should I protract a tale which I already begin, to feel is 
too long? Over this scene, at least, let me pass lightly. Here, 
indeed, my narrative would be imperfect. All was tempest- 
uous commotion in my heart and in my brain. I have no 
memory for aught but unconscious transitions and rueful 

sights. I was ingenious and indefatigable in the invention of 
torments. I would not dispense with any spectacle adapted to~ 
exasperate my grief. Each pale and mangled form-I crushed 
to my bosom. Louisa, whom I loved with so ineffable a pas- 
sion, was denied to me at ey but my obstinacy conquered 
their reluctance. 

They led the way into a darkened hall. A lamp pendant 
from the ceiling was uncovered, and they pointed to a table. 


The assassin had defrauded me of my last and miserable con- 


solation. I sought not in her visage for the tinge of the 


WIELAND. — 


morning and the lustre of heaven. These had vanished with 
life ; but I hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. 
This was denied me; for such had been the merciless blow 
that destroyed her, that not a lineament remained! _ 

I was carried hence to the city. Mrs. Hallet was my com- 
panion and my nurse. Why should I dwell upon the rage of 
fever and the effusions of delirium? Carwin was the phantom 
that pursued my dreams, the giant oppressor under whose 
arm I was forever on the point of being crushed. Strenuous 
muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel 
to withstand the eloquence of my fears. In vain I called upon 
them to look upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowl- 
ing contempt. All I sought was to fly from the stroke that 
was lifted. Then I heaped upon my guards‘the most vehe- 
ment reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the help- 
lessness of my condition. : 

This malady at length declined: and my weeping friends 
began to look for my restoration. Slowly, and with intermit- 
ted beams, memory revisited me. The scenes that I had 
witnessed were revived, became the theme of deliberation and 
deduction, and called forth the effusions of move rational 
SOrrow. 


ae 
a 

a 
Lee 
ok, 
—s 
¥ 


e 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


I nap imperfectly recovered my strength, when I was in- 
formed of the arrival of my mother’s brother, Thomas Cam- 
bridge. Ten years since, he went to Kurope, and was a sur- 
eeon in the British forces in Germany during the whole of the 
late war. After its conclusion, some connection that he had 
formed with an Irish officer made him retire into Ireland. 
Intercourse had been punctually maintained by letters with 
his sister’s children, and hopes were given that he would 
shortly return to his native country and pass his old age in 
our society. He was now in an evil hour arrived. 

I desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent 
reasons. With the first returns of my understanding I had 
anxiously sought information of the fate of my brother. 
During the course of my disease I had never seen him; and 
vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my in- 
quiries. I had vehemently interrogated Mrs. Hallet and her 
husband, and solicited an interview with this unfortunate 
man; but they mysteriously insinuated that his reason was 
still unsettled, and that his circumstances rendered an inter- 
view impossible. Their reserve on the particulars of this 
destruction and the author of it was equally invincible. 

For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had de- 
sisted from direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as 
soon as my strength was sufficiently renewed, to pursue other 
means of dispelling my uncertainty. In this state of things 
my uncle’s arrival and intention to visit me were announced. 
I almost shuddered to behold the face of this man. When I 
reflected on the disasters that had befallen us, I was half un-. 


‘willing to witness that dejection and grief which would be 


| 


192 ve WIELAND; OR, — 


disclosed in his countenance. But I believed that all transac- 
tions had been thoroughly disclosed to him, and confided in 
my importunity to extort from him the knowledge that L 
sought. 

I had no doubt as to the person of our enemy ; but the 
motives that ure¢ed him to perpetrate these horrors, the means 
that he used, and his present condition, were totally unknown. 
It was reasonable to expect some information on this head 


from my uncle. I therefore waited his coming with impa-_ 


tience. At length, in the dusk of the evening, and in my 
solitary chamber, this meeting took place. 


This man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated us - 


with the affection of a parent. Our meeting, therefore, could 
not be without overflowing tenderness and gloomy joy. He 
rather encouraged than restrained the tears that I poured ont 
in his arms, and took upon himself the task of eomforter. 


Allusions to recent disasters could not be long omitted. One. 


topic facilitated the admission of another. At length { men- 
tioned and deplored the ignorance in which I had been kept 
respecting my brother's destiny and the circumstances of our 
misfortunes. I entreated him to tell me what was Wieland’s 
condition, and what progress had been made in detecting or 
punishing the author of this unheard-of devastation, 

“The author!” said he; ‘‘ do you know the author 2?” 


“Alas!” L answered, “Iam too well acquainted with him. 
The story of the grounds of my suspicions would be painful — 


and toolong. Lam not apprised of the extent of your present 
_knowledge. There are none but Wieland, Pleyel, and myself 
who are able to relate certain sate | 


“Spare yourself the pain,” said he. “AH that Wiclside 


and Pleyel can communicate I know already. If anything of 


moment has fallen within your own exclusive knowledge, and. 


the relation be not too arduous for your present strength, I 
confess Iam desirous of hearing it. Perhaps you allude to 
one by the name of Carwin. I will anticipate your eurios- 
ity by saying that since these disasters no one has seen or 


ae 


Yee o as, Se 


Breit atin faite aor PUM COIR Neate Upe PRM MEY es Ts 
Be ae © eR ey Pete GAP! Se at oa a 
Di eich (Cea Oe one Wai: Be 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 198 


heard of him. His agency is, therefore, a mystery still un- 
solved.” | - 

T readily complied with his request, and related as dis- 
tinctly as I could, though in general terms, the events trans- 
acted in the summer-house and my chamber. He listened 
without apparent surprise to the tale of Pleyel’s errors and 
suspicions, and with augmented seriousness to my narrative 
of the warnings and-inexplicable vision, and the letter found 
upon the table. I waited for his comments. 

‘“You gather from this,” said he, “that Carwin is the 
author of all this misery ?” 

“Ts it not,” answered I, ‘‘an unavoidable inference? But 
what know you respecting it? Was it possible to execute 
this mischief without witness or coadjutor? Ibeseech you to 
relate to me when and why Mr. Hallet was summoned to the 
scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or dis- 
covered. Surely, suspicion must have fallen upon some one, 
and pursuit was made.” 

My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with 
hasty steps. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he 
seemed buried in perplexity. At length he paused, and said, 
with an emphatic tone, “It is true ; the instrument is known. 
Carwin may have plotted, but the execution was another's. 
That other is found, and his deed is ascertained.” 

“Godd heaven!” I exclaimed ; “what say you? Was not 
Carwin the assassin? Could any hand but his have carried 
into act this dreadful purpose ?” 

“Have I not said,” returned he, “ that the performance 
was another's? Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, 
prompted the murderer; but Carwin is unknown. The actual 
performer has long since been called to judgment and con- 
victed, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon 
loaded with chains.” 

I lifted my hands and eyes. ‘‘ Who then is this assassin ? 
By what means and whither was he traced? What is the 
- testimony of his guilt ?” 


194 WIELAND ; OR, — 


“His own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid who 
spied the murder of the children from a closet where she was 
concealed. The magistrate returned from your dwelling to 
your brother’s. He was employed in hearing and recording 
the testimony of the only witness, when the criminal himself, 
unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered the hall, acknowl- 
edged his guilt, and rendered himself up to justice. 

“He has since been summoned to the bar. The audience 
was composed of thousands whom rumors of this wonder- 
ful event had attracted from the greatest distance. A long 
and impartial examination was made, and the prisoner was 
called upon for his defence. In compliance with this call, 
he delivered an ample relation of his motives and actions.” 
There he stopped.” 

I besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the 
instigations that compelled him. My uncle was silent. I 
urged this inquiry with new force. I reverted to my own 
knowledge, and sought in this some basis to conjecture. I 
van over the scanty catalogue of the men whom I knew; I 
lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice 
like this, Again I resorted to importunity. Had I ever seen 
the criminal? Was it sheer cruelty or diabolical revenge 
that produced this overthrow ? 

He surveyed me for a considerable time, and listened to 
my interrogations in silence. At length he spoke: ‘Clara, 
-I have known thee by report, and in some degree by obser- 
vation. Thou art a being of no vulgar sort. Thy friends 
have hitherto treated thee as a child. They meant well, but 
perhaps they were unacquainted with thy strength. I assure 
myself that nothing will surpass thy fortitude. 

“Thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family, his 
actions, and his motives. Shall I call him to thy presence, 


and permit him to confess before thee? Shall I make him ~ 


the narrator of his own tale?” 
I started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful 
elances, as if the murderer was close at hand. ‘*‘ What do 


ab 


THE 


“TRANSFORMATION. 


you mean?” said I. “Put an end, I beseech you, to this. 


suspense.” Pat. 


«Be not alarmed ; you will never more behold the face of 
this criminal, unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, 
and sever like threads thé constraint of links and bolts. I 
have said that the assassin was arraigned at the bar, and that 
the trial ended with a summons from the judge to confess or 
to vindicate his actions. A reply was immediately made with 
significance of gesture and a tranquil majesty which denoted 
less of humanity than godhead. Judges, advocates, and audi- 
tors were panic-struck and breathless with attention. One of 

the hearers faithfully recorded the speech. ‘There it is,” 
continued he, putting a roll of papers in my hand; “you 
may read it at your leisure.” ~ 

With these words my uncle left me alone. My curiosity ~ 
-yefused me a moment’s delay. I opened the papers, and read 
as follows: | 


A ae Ap atye! \ ay i ee, ee) eee on he, He, 
= aS Uh yee Vat Se tet a Renee ee PD 
3 ee 5 ay tier te eS 

Fe a ye ih gay 3 RS e | a ate 2 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“THEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now 
called upon for his defence. He looked around him for some 
time in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he 
spoke: 

“Tt is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors. 
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland? 
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend ? 
Yet here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with 
diabolical malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife 
and my children ! 

‘Tt is true, they were slain by me: they all perished by my 
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I 
am called to vindicate? and before whom ? 

“You know that they are dead, and that they were killed 
by me. What more would you have? Would you extort 
from me a statement of my motives? Have you failed to dis- 
cover them already? You charge me with malice ; but your 
eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous ; your memory 
has not forsaken you. You know whom it is that you thus- | 
charge. The habits of his life are known to you; his treat- 
ment of his wife and his offspring is known to you; the E 
soundness of his integrity, and the unchangeableness of his a 
principles are familiar to your apprehension ; yet you persist 
in this charge! You lead me hither manacled as a felon; 
you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death! 

“Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife 
—the little ones, that drew their being from me—that creat- 
ure who, as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a 
larger affection than those whom natural affinities bound to a 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. = 197 
my heart. Think ye that malice could have urged me to this 
deed? Hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of 
heaven. Take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human 
eyes. Ye may deplore your wickedness or folly, but ye can- 
not expiate it. 

“Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your 
hearts this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, 
and drag me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dis- 
pel your illusion; I utter not a word to cure you of your 
sanguinary folly ; but there are probably some in this assem- 
bly who have come from far ; for their sakes, whose distance 
has disabled them from knowing me, I will tell what I have 
done, and why. 

“Tt is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme 
passion. I have cherished.in His presence a single and up- 


-yight heart. I have thirsted for the knowledge of His will. I 


have burnt with ardor to approve my faith and my obedi- 
ence. 

“My days have been spent in searching for the revelation 
of that will; but my days have been mournful, because my 
search failed. I solicited direction ; I turned on every side 
where glimmering of light could be discovered. _ I have not 
been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always 
stopped short of certainty. Dissatisfaction has insinuated it- 
self into all my thoughts. My purposes have been pure, my 
wishes indefatigable ; but not till lately were these purposes 
thoroughly accomplished and these wishes fully gratified. 

“T thank Thee, my Father, for Thy bounty ; that Thou didst — 
not ask a less sacrifice than this ; that Thou placedst me in a_ 
condition to testify my submission to Thy will! What have 1 ~ 
withheld which it was Thy pleasure to exact? Now may I, 
with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have 
eiven Thee the treasure of my soul. 

“JT was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my 
sister had gone to the city, but proposed toreturn. It was 


in expectation of her return that my wife and I delayed going 


tose _ " 'WIRLAND; OR, 


to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the family, how- 
ever, were retired. | 

‘‘ My mind was contemplative and calm—not wholly devoid = 
of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. Recent ; 
events, not easily explained, had suegvested the existence of 
some danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in 
our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity. 

‘Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her house 
is at some distance from mine, and, though her arrange- 
ments had been made with a view of residing with us, it was 
possible that, through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of un- 
foreseen emergencies, she had returned to her own dwelling. 

“Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain 
the truth by going thither. Iwent. On my way my mind 

was full of those ideas which related to my intellectual con- 
dition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions I lost sight of 
my purpose. Sometimes I stood still; sometimes I wandered 
from my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering 
from my fit of musing, to regain it. 

“ The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every 
vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose paren- 
tal and conjugal love is without limits, and the eup of whose 
desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know 
not why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now ie 
have recurred with unusual energy. The transition was not 
new from sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. 
The Author of my being was likewise the dispenser of every 
gift with which that being wasembellished. The service te 

_ which a benefactor like this was entitled could not be cireum- 
scribed. My social sentiments were indebted to their alliance 
with devotion for all their value. All passions are base, all 
joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from 
this source. 

_ “For atime my contemplations soared above earth and its 
inhabitants. Istretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, 
and exclaimed, ‘Oh, that I might be admitted to Thy pres- 


i, 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 199 


ence! that mine were the supreme delight of knowing Thy 
will and of performing it!—the blissful privilege of direct 
communication with Thee, and of listening to the audible 
enunciation of Thy pleasure ! 

««¢ What task would I not undertake, what privation would 
I not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of Thee? Alas! 
Thou hidest Thyself from my view ; glimpses only of Thy ex- 
cellence and beauty are afforded me. Would that a momen- 
tary emanation from Thy glory would visit me! that some un- 
ambiguous token of Thy presence would salute my senses !’ 

“In this mood Ientered the house of my sister. It was 
vacant. Scarcely had I regained recollection of the purpose 
that brought me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency 
had such an absolute possession of my mind; that the rela- 
tions of time and space were almost obliterated from my un- 
derstanding. These wanderings, however, were restrained, 
and I ascended to her chamber. 

*T had no light, and might have known by external obser- 
vation that the house was without any inhabitant. With 
this, however, I was not satisfied. JIentered the room, and 
the object of my search not appearing I prepared to return. 

«The darkness required some caution in descending the 
stair. I stretched out my hand to seize the balustrade by 
which I might regulate my steps. How shall I describe the 
lustre which at that moment burst upon my vision ? 

«T was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity. 
My eyelids were half closed, and my hands withdrawn from 
the balustrade. A nameless fear chilled my veins, and I stood 
motionless. This irradiation did not retire or lessen. It 
seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a 

-mantle. 

‘“‘T opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and _ 
glowing. It was the element of heaven that flowed around. 
Nothing but a fiery stream was at first visible ; but, anon, a 
shrill voice from behind called upon me to attend. 

“T turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw: words, 


yn Pi ont? att 


200 WIELAND; OR, 


indeed, would be wanting to the task. The lineaments of that 


Being whose veil was now lifted and whose visage beamed 
upon my sight no hues of pencil or of language can portray. 

“As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart: < Thy pray- 
ers are heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. 
Lhis is the victim I choose. Call her hither, and here let her 
fall.’ The sound and visage and light vanished at once, 

“What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to 
be shed! My wife was to perish by my hand! I sought 
opportunity to attest my virtue. Little did I expect that a 
proof like this would have been demanded. 

“ «My wife!’ I exclaimed.; ‘O God! substitute some other 
victim. Make me not the butcher of my wife. My own blood 
is cheap. This will I pour out before Thee with a willing 
heart ; but spare, I beseech Thee, this precious life, or com- 
mission some other than her husband to perform the bloody 
deed.’ 

“In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had 
gone forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed 
out of the house and across the intermediate fields, and 
stopped not till I entered my own parlor. 

‘“ My wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious 
expectation of my return with some tidings of her sister, Thad 
none to communicate. For a time I was breathless with my 
speed. This, and the tremors that shook my frame, and the 
wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She immediately sus- 


pected some disaster to have happened to her friend, and her 


own speech was as much overpowered by emotion as mine. - 
“She was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience 

to hear what I had to communicate, I spoke, but with so 

much precipitation as scarcely to be understood ; catching 


her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly pulling her - 


from her seat. 

“Come along with me; fly; waste nota moment: time 
will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. Tarry not, 
question not, but fly with me!’ 


Sieg 4 


% Seay oc OO he ean ee TONE een Sa 
THE TRANSFORMATION. 201 


“This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her eyes 
pursued mine, and she said, ‘What is the matter? For 
God’s sake, what is the matter? Where would you have me 
20?’ 

“My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she 
spoke. I thought upon her virtues; I viewed her as the 
mother of my babes; as my wife. I recalled the purpose for 
which I thus urged her attendance. My heart faltered, and 
I saw that I must rouse to this work all my faculties. The 
danger of the least delay was imminent. 

“T looked away from. her, and, again exerting my force, 
drew her toward the door—‘ You must go with me; indeed 
you must.’ 

“In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again ex- 
claimed, ‘Good heaven! what is it you mean? Where go?” 
What has happened? Have you found Clara?’ 

« «Follow me and you will see,’ I answered, still urging her 
reluctant steps forward. 

« «What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs 
have happened, Is she sick? Have you found her?’ 

“ «Come and see. Follow me and know for yourself.’ 

“Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this 
mysterious behavior. I could not trust myself to answer her, 
to look at her; but, grasping her arm, I drew her after me. 
She hesitated, rather through confusion of mind than from 
unwillingness to accompany me. This confusion gradually 2 
abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps E 
and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. Her in- 
terrogations of ‘what was the matter?’ and ‘whither was I 
going ?’ were ceaseless and vehement. ; 
“Tt was the scope of my. efforts not to think; to keep up 
a conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and | 
distinctness should be lost; to escape from the sensations 
produced by her voice. JI was therefore silent. I strove to | 

‘abridge this interval by haste, and to waste all my attention 
in furious gesticulations. ; 


ae es | re af et ) aeihe ce, , oe 


202 Ray WIELAND; OR, 


“In this state of mind we reached my sister’s door. She 
looked at the windows and saw that all was desolate. ‘Why 
come we here? ‘There is nobody here. I will not go in.’ 

“Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her into 
the entry. This was the allotted scene; here she was to fall. 
I let go her hand, and pressing my palms against my fore- 
head, made one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed. 

“Tn vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled, my 
arms nerveless. JI muttered prayers that my strength might 
be aided from above. ‘They availed nothing. 

“Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my 
cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid 
and cold-as marble. From this state I was somewhat relieved 
by my wife’s voice, who renewed her supplications to be told 
why we came hither and what was the fate of my sister. 

“What could I answer? My words were broken and in- 
articulate. Her fears naturally acquired force from the ob- 
servation of these symptoms ; but these fears were misplaced. 
‘The only inference she deduced from my conduct was that 
some terrible mishap had befallen Clara. 

‘She wrung her hands and exclaimed in an agony, ‘ Oh, 
tell me, where igs she? What has become of her? Is she 
sick? Dead? Is she in her chamber? Oh, let me go 
thither and know the worst !’ , 

“This proposal set my thoughts once more in motion. 
Perhaps what my rebellious heart refused to perform here, I 
might obtain strength enough to execute elsewhere. 

‘“ «Come, then,’ said I; ‘let us go.’ 

“ «TJ will, but not in the dark. We must first procure a 
leht.’ 

“Fly, then, and procure it;-but I charge you, linger not. 
I will await for your return.’ 

“While she was gone, I strode along the entry. The fell- 


ness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the discord 


that reigned in my mind. To omit this sacrifice must not 


be ; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. No alternative 


~<! ehh Oe ae a CAP SEE 7), ee ened ee Pe Res ae ee a 
ia aie ai aaa i ae nel aia Ce 
Sear Se oa DRAGS A ~ Sars 


aes 


THE TRANSFORMATION. — 903 


was offered. ‘To rebel against the mandate was impossible ; 
but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. 
My will was strong, but my limbs refused their office. 
‘She returned with a light. I led the way to the chamber ; 
she looked around her ; she lifted the curtain of the bed ; she 
saw nothing. 
“At leneth, she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. The light 
now enabled her to discover in my visage what darkness had 
hitherto concealed, Her cares were now transferred from my 
sister to myself, and she said, in a tremulous voice, ‘ Wieland, 
you are not well: what ails you? Can I do nothing for 
you 2’ 
“That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of 
my resolution was to be expected. My thoughts were 
thrown anew into anarchy. JI spread my hand before my . 
eyes that I might not see her, and answered only by groans. 
She took my other hand between hers, and, pressing it to her 
heart, spoke with that voice which had ever swayed my will 
and wafted away sorrow : 
«My friend! my soul’s friend! tell me thy cause of grief. 
Do I not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not 
thy wife?’ : 
“This was too much. I broke from her embrace and re- 
tired to a corner of the room. In this pause, courage was 
* ~ once more infused into me. I resolved to execute my duty. 
She followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to 
know the cause of my distress. i 
“T raised my head and regarded her with steadfast looks. 
I muttered something about death, and the injunctions of 
my duty. At these words she shrunk back, and looked at me 
with a new expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped 
her hands, and exclaimed— , Bs 
“ «Oh, Wieland! Wieland! God grant that Iam mistaken ! 
e but something surely is wrong. I see it; it is too plain ; 
___ thou art undone—lost to me and to thyself.’ At the same time 
she gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope 


204 | WIELAND; OR, 


that different sy mptoms would take place. I replied to her 
with vehemence— 
“Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God 


that my Ron aices is now vanquished and I have power to 


fulfil it. Catharine, I pity the weakness of thy nature; I 


pity thee, but must not spare. Thy life is claimed from my 


hands; thou must die !’ 

“Fear was now added to her grief. ‘What mean you ? 
Why talk you of death? Bethink yourself, Wieland ; bethink 
yourself, and this fit will pass. Oh, why came I fitter ? SVG hy 
oe you drag me hither ?’ 

‘<T brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. I am 
appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I must.’ Saying 
this, I seized her wrists. She shrieked aloud, and endeavored 
to free herself from my grasp ; but her efforts were vain. 

“Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I 
not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; 
and yet—I see—thou art Wieland no longer! <A fury re- 
sistless and horrible possesses thee. Spare me—spare—help 
—help-—— . 

“Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help, for 
mercy. When she could speak no longer her gestures, her 
looks appealed to my compassion. My accursed hand was 
irresolute and tremulous. I meant thy death to be sudden, 
thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart was infirm, my re- 
solves mutable. Thrice I slackened my grasp, and life kept 
its hold, though in the midst of pangs. Her eyeballs started 
from their sockets. Grimness and distortion took place of 
all that used to bewitch me into transport and subdue me 
into reverence. | 

‘‘T was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee 
with the foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears 
and prolong thy agonies. Haggard and pale and lifeless, 
at length thou ceasedst to contend with thy destiny. — 

“This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I success- 
fully subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the vic- 


A of EN eee 


THE TRANSKORMATION. 


tim which had been demanded was given ; the deed was done 
past recall. 

“T lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. 
I gazed upon it with delight. Such was the elation of my 
thoughts that I even broke into laughter. I clapped my 
hands and exclaimed, ‘It is done! My sacred duty is ful- 
filled! To that I have sacrificed, O my God! Thy last and 
best eift, my wife!’ 

“Por a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I 
had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness ; but 
my imaginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. 
I looked again at my wife. My joyous ebullitions vanished, 
and I asked myself who it was whom I saw. Methought 
it could not be Catharine. It could not be the woman who 
had lodged for years in my heart; who had slept nightly in 
my bosom ; who had borne in her womb, who had fostered 
at her breast, the beings who called me father ; whom I 
had watched with delight, and cherished with a fondness 
eyer new and perpetually growing ; it could not be the same. 

«Where was her bloom? These deadly and blood-suffused 
orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness of her 


eyes. The lucid stream that meandered over that bosom, the 


slow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much 
unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. Alas! 
these were the traces of agony ; the gripe of the assassin had 
been here ! | 

“TJ will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and out- — 
rageous sorrow. The breath of heaven that sustained me was 
withdrawn, and I sunk into mere man. I leaped from the 
floor ; I dashed my head against the wall ; I uttered screams 
of horror ; I panted after torment and pain. Eternal fire and 


_the bickerings of hell compared with what I felt were music 


and a bed of roses. 
“T thank my God that this fee was transient— 


that He designed once more to raise me aloft. I thought 


upon what I had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm, 


WIELAND. 


My wife was dead ; but I reflected that though this source of 
human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. If 
the transports of a husband were no more, the feelings of a 
father had still scope for exercise. When remembrance of 
their mother should excite too keen a pang, I would look 
upon them and be comforted. | 
‘While I revolved these ideas new warmth flowed in upon 


my heart. Iwas wrong. These feelings were the erowth of | 


selfishness. Of this I was not aware, and, to dispel the mist 
that obscured my perceptions, a new effuleence and a new 
mandate were necessary. 

‘From these thoughts I was recalled by a. ray that was 
shot into the room. <A voice spake like that which I had 
before heard—‘Thou hast done well. But all is not done— 
the sacrifice is incomplete—thy children must be offered— 
they must perish with their mother !——’ ” 


CHAPTER XX. 


Wit you wonder that I read no farther? ‘Will you not 
rather be astonished that I read thus far? What power sup- 
ported me through such a task I know not. Perhaps the 
doubt from which I could not disengage my mind—that the 
scene here depicted was a dream—contributed to my perse- 
verance. In vain the solemn introduction of my uncle, his 


appeals to my fortitude, and allusions to something monstrous _ 


in the events he was about to disclose—in vain the distressing 
_ perplexity, the mysterious silence and ambiguous answers, of 
my attendants, especially when the condition of my brother 
was the theme of my inquiries—were remembered. I re- 
culled the interview with Wieland in my chamber, his pre- 
ternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts of passion and 


menacing actions. All these coincided with the tenor of this 


paper. 
Catharine and her children and Louisa were dead. The 


act that destroyed them was in the highest degree inhuman. 
It was worthy of savages trained to murder and exulting in 
agonies. 

Who \was the. performer of the deed? Wicland! My 
brother! The husband and the father! That man of gen- 
tle virtues and invincible benignity! placable and mild—an 
idolater of peace! “Surely,” said I, “itis a dream. For 
many days have I been vexed with frenzy. Its dominion is 
still felt; but new forms are called up to diversify and aug- 
ment my torments.” 

The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed 
it. Ishrunk back, as if to avoid some petrifying influence 
that approached me. My tongue was mute; all the func- 


208 ‘<2 WERLAND | OR, os 
tions of nature were at a stand, and I sank upon the floor 
lifeless. 

The noise of my fall, as I afterward heard, alarmed my 
uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehen- 
sions had detained him. He hastened to my chamber and 
administered the assistance which my condition required. 
When I opened my eyes I beheld him before me, His skill 
as 2 reasoner as well as a physician was exerted to obviate the 
injurious effects of this disclosure ; but he had wrongly esti- 
mated the strength of my body or of my mind. This new 
shock brought me once more to the brink of the grave, and 
my malady was much more difficult to subdue than at first. 

I will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensations, 
and hideous confusion of my understanding. Time slowly 
restored its customary firmness to my frame and order to my 
thoughts. The images impressed upon my mind by this fatal 
paper were somewhat effaced by my malady. They were 
obscure and disjointed, like the parts of a dream. T was de- 
sirous of freeing my imagination from this chaos. For this 
end I questioned my uncle, who was my constant companion. 
He was intimidated by the issue of his first experiment, and 
took pains to elude or discourage my inquiry. My inpetu- 
osity sometimes compelled him to have resort to misrepre- 
sentations and untruths. 

Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial man- 
ner. In the course of my meditations the recollections of 
the past gradually became more distinct. I revolved them, 
however, in silenee, and, being no longer accompanied with 
surprise, they did not exercise a death-dealing power. I had 
discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst of the 
narrative; but what I read, combined with information. else- 
where obtained, threw, perhaps, a sufficient light upon these 
detestable transactions ; yet my curiosity was not inactive. I 
desired to pursue the remainder. 

My eagerness to know the particulars of this tale 3 was min- 
gled and abated by my antipathy to the scene which would 


ee Na THE TRANSFORMATION. : 209 


be disclosed. Hence I employed no means to effect my pur- 
pose. I desired knowledge, and, at the same time, shrunk 
back froth receiving the boon. 

One morning, being left alone, I rose from my bed, and 
went to a drawer where my finer clothing used to be kept. 
T opened it, and this fatal paper saluted my sight. I snatched 
it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. I debated, for a 
few minutes, whether I should open and read. Now that my 
fortitude was put to trial, it failed. I felt myself incapable 
of deliberately surveying a scene of so much horror. I was 
prompted to return it to its place; but this resolution gave 
way, and I determined to peruse some part of it. I turned 
over the leaves till I came near the conclusion. The narra- 
tive of the criminal was finished, the verdict of guilly re- 
luctantly pronounced by the jury, and the accused interro- 
gated why sentence of death should not pass. The answer 
was brief, solemn, and emphatical. | 

“No. I have nothing to say. My tale has been told. My 
motives have been truly stated. If my judges are unable to 
discern the purity of my intentions, or to credit the statement 
of them which I have just made ; if they see not that my deed 
was enjoined by heaven, that obedience -was the test of per- 
fect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and error, they 
must pronounce me a murderer. 

“They refuse to credit my tale ; they impute my acts to 
the influence of demons; they account me an example of the 
highest\wickedness of which human nature is capable ; they 
doom me to death and infamy. Have I power to.escape this 
evil? If I have, be sure I will exert it, I will not accept 
evil at their hand, when I am entitled to good; I will suffer 
only when I cannot elude suffering, a 

“You say that I am guilty. Impious and rash! thus to | 
usurp the perogatives of your Maker! to set up your bounded 
views and halting reason asthe measure of truth. é 

“Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my 
actions were conformable to Thy will. I know not what is 


~ 


4 


210 WIELAND; OR, 


crime; what actions are evil in their ultimate and compre- 
hensive tendency, or what are good. Thy knowledge, as Thy 
power, is unlimited. I have taken Thee for my guide, and 
cannot-err. To the arms of Thy protection I intrust my 
safety. In the awards of Thy justice I confide for my recom- 
pense. 

“Come death when it will, Iam safe. Let calumny. and 
abhorrence pursue me among men; I shall not be defrauded 
of my dues. The peace of virtue, and the elory of obedience 
will be my portion hereafter.” 

Here ended the speaker. I withdrew my eyes from the 
pie; but before I had time to reflect of what I had read, 
Mr. Cambridge entered the room. He quickly perceived how 
Thad been employed, and betrayed some solicitude respect- 
ing the condition of my mind. 

His fears, however, were superfluous. What I had read 
threw me into a state not easily described. Anguish and 
fury, however, had no part in it. My faculties were chained 
up in wonder andawe. Just then, I was unable to speak. I 
looked at my friend with an air of inquisitiveness, and point- 
ed at the roll’. He comprehended my inquiry, and answered 
me with looks of gloomy acquiescence. After some time my 
thoughts found their way to my lips. | 

Such, then, were the.acts of my brother. Such were his 
words. For this he was condemned to die; to die upon the 
eallows! A fate cruel and unmerited! ‘And is it so?” 
continued I, struggling for utterance, which this new idea 
made difficult ; ‘is he—dead ? ” , 

“No. He is alive. There could be no doubt as to the cause 
of these excesses. They originated in sudden madness; but 
that madness continues, and he is condemned to perpetual 
imprisonment.” 

“Madness, say you? Are yousure? Were not these sights 
and these sounds really seen and heard ?” 

My uncle was surprised at my question, He looked at me 
with apparent inquietude. “ Can you doubt,” said he, “ that 


“ 


ae ee 


: 


Re eae aera tiie ITA ive, aoatelt eae eae ae ee My ee EDA ee ee 


THE TRANSFORMATION. — 911 


these were illusions? “Does heaven, think you, interfere for 
such ends?” | 

“Oh, no;I1 think it not. Heaven cannot stimulate to 
such unheard-of outrage. The agent was not good, but evil.” 

“Nay, my dear girl,” said my friend, “lay aside these 
fancies. Neither angel nor devil had any part in this affair.” 

“You misunderstand me,” I answered; ‘I believe the 
agency to be external and real, but not supernatural.” 

“Indeed!” said he, in an accent of suprise. “Whom do 
you then suppose to be the agent?” 

“T know not. Allis bewildering conjecture. I cannot for- 
get Carwin. I cannot banish the suspicion that he was the 
setter of these snares. But how can we suppose it to be mad- 
ness? Did insanity ever before assume this form ?” . 

“Prequently. The illusion in this case was more dread- 
ful in its consequences than any that has come to my knowl- 
edge; but I repeat that similar illusions are notvare. Did 
you never hear of an instance which occurred in your mother’s 


family?” 


‘““No. I-beseech you, relate it. My gerandfather’s death I 
have understood to have been extraordinary, but I know not 
in what respect. A brother, to whom he was much attached, 
died in his youth ; and this, as I have heard, influenced, in 
some remarkable way, the fate of my grandfather ; but I am 
unacquainted with particulars.” 

“On the death of that brother,” resumed my friend, “my 
father, was seized with dejection, which was found to flow 
from two sources. He not only erieved for the loss of a 
friend, but entertained the belief that his own death would be 
inevitably consequent on that of his brother. He waited from 
day to day in expectation of the stroke which he predicted 
was speedily to fall upon him. Gradually, however, he re- 
covered his cheerfulness and confidence. He married, and 


performed his part in the world with spirit and activity. At 


the end of twenty-one years it happened that he spent the 


summer with bis family at a house which he possessed on the 


219 EWI EE AND «ORE 


sea-coast in Cornwall. It was at no great distance from a cliff 
which overhung the ocean and rose into the air to a ereat 
height. The summit was level and secure, and easily as- 
cended on the land side. The company frequently repaired 
hither in clear weather, invited by its pure airs and extensive 
prospects. One evening in June my father, with his wife and 
some friends, chanced to be on this spot. very one was 
happy, and my father’s imagination seemed particularly alive 
to the grandeur. of the scenery. 

“Suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features 
betrayed alarm. He threw himself into the attitude of one 
listening. He gazed earnestly in a direction in which nothing 
was visible to his friends. This lasted for a minute ; then, 
turning to his companions, he told them that his brother had 
- just delivered to him a summons, which must be instantly 
obeyed. He then took a hasty and solemn leave of each per- 
son, and, before their surprise would allow them to under- 
stand the scene, he rushed to the edge of the cliff, threw him- 
self headlong, and was seen no more. a 

“In the course of my practice in the German army, many 
cases equally remarkable have occurred. Unquestionably the 
illusions were maniacal, though the vulgar thought other- 
wise. They are all reducible to one class,* and are not more 
difficult of explication and cure than most affections of our 
frame.” 

This opinion my uncle endeavored, by various means, to 
impress upon me. I listened to his reasonings and illustra- 
tions with silent respect. My astonishment was ereat on 
finding proofs of an influence of which I had supposed there 
were no examples ; but I was far from accounting for appear- 
ances in my uncle’s manner. Ideas thronged into my mind 
which I was unable to disjoin or to regulate. I reflected that 
this madness, if madness it were, had affected Pleyel and my- 
Self as well as Wieland. Pleyel had heard a mysterious 


* Mania mutabilis. See Darwin’s Zoonomia, vol. ii,, Class III., 1, 2, 
where similar cases are stated. 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. — 13, 


voice. Thad seen and heard. A form had shown itself to me 
as well as to Wieland. The disclosure had been made in 
the same spot. The appearance was equally complete and 
equally prodigious in poth instances. Whatever supposition 
Ishould adopt, had I not equal reason to tremble? What 
was my security against influences equally terrific and equally 
irresistible ? 

It would be vain to attempt to describe the state of mind 
which this idea produced. I wondered at the change which 
a moment had effected in my brother's condition. Now was 
Istupefied with tenfold wonder in contemplating myself. Was 
T not likewise transformed from rational and human into a 
ereature of nameless and fearful attributes? Was I not 
transported to the brink of the same abyss? Tre anew day 
should come my hands might be imbrued in blood, and my 
remaining life be consigned to a dungeon and chains. 

With moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new 
dread was more insupportable than the anguish I had lately 
endured. Grief carries its own antidote along with it. When 
thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain its progress must 
be stopped. Death is a cure which nature or ourselves must 
administer. To this cure I now looked forward with gloomy 
satisfaction. : 

My silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of 
my thoughts. He made unwearied efforts to divert my 
attention from views so pregnant with danger. His efforts, 
aided\ by time, were in some measure successful. Confidence 
in the strength of my resolution and in the healthful state of 
my faculties was once more revived. I was able to devote 
my thoughts to my brother’s state and the causes of this dis- 
astrous proceeding. 

My opinions were the sport of eternal change. Sometimes. 
I conceived the apparition to be more than human. IT had 
no grounds on which to build a disbelief. I could not deny 
faith to the evidence of my religion ; the testimony of men 
was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade 


3 Sei See ay Tea ee rags 


~ 


Ot 4. WIELAND; OR, 


me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was fre-_ 


quently exerted in the system of the world. 

These ideas connected themselves with the image of 
Carwin. ‘‘ Where is the proof,” said I, “that demons may 
not be subjected to the control of men? This truth may be 
distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. ‘The 
dogmas of the vulgar with regard to this subject are glaringly 
absurd ; but, though these may justly be neglected by the 
wise, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting the pos- 
sibility that men may obtain supernatural aid. 

“The dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt. 
Witcheraft, its instruments and miwcles, the compact ratified 
by a bloody signature, the apparatus of sulphurous smells 
and thundering explosions, are monstrous and chimerical. 
These have no part in the scene over which the genius of 
Carwin presides. That conscious beings, dissimilar from 
human, but moral and voluntary agents as we are, some- 
where exist can scarcely be denied. That their aid may be 
employed to benign or malignant purposes cannot be dis- 
proved. 

‘Darkness rests upon the designs of this man. The ex- 
tent of his power is unknown : but is there not evidence that 
it has been now exerted ?” 

I recurred to my own experience. Here Carwin had 
actually appeared upon the stage ; but this was in a human 
character. A voice and a form were discovered ; but one 


was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed, not to be-— 


friend but to counteract Carwin’s designs. There were to- 
kens of hostility and not of alliance between them. Carwin 
was the miscreant whose projects were resisted by a minister 
of heaven. How can this be reconciled to the stratagem which 
‘ruined my brother ? There the agency was at once preternat- 
ural and malignant. 

The recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a new 
channel. The malignity of that influence which governed 
my brother had hitherto been no subject of doubt. His wife 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 915 


and children were destroyed ; they had expired in agony and 

fear. Yet was it indisputably certain that their murderer was 
criminal? He was acquitted at the tribunal of his own con- 
science ; his behavior at his trial, and since, was faithfully 
reported to me ; appearances were uniform; not for a mo- 
ment did he lay aside the majesty of virtue ; he repelled all 
invectives by appealing to the Deity and to the tenor of his 
past life. Surely there was truth in this appeal; none but a 
command from heaven could have swayed his will ; and noth- 
ing but unerring proof of divine approbation could sustain 

his mind in its present elevation. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Suon, for some time, was the course of my meditations. | 
My weakness, and my aversion to be pointed out as an object 
of surprise or compassion, prevented me from going into 
public. I studiously avoided the visits of those who came to 
express their sympathy or oratify their curiosity. My uncle 
was my principal companion. Nothing more powerfully 
tended to console me than his conversation. | 

With regard to Pleyel, my feelings seemed to have under- 
gone a total revolution. It often happens that one passion 
supplants another. Late disasters had rent my heart, and, 
now that the wound was in some degree closed, the love 
which I had cherished for this man seemed likewise to have 
vanished. | | 

Hitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair. I was 
innocent of that offence which had estranged him from my 


presence. I might reasonably expect that my innocence — 
would at some time be irresistibly denionstrated, and his 
affection for me be revived with his esteem. Now my aver-, 
sion to be thought culpable by him continued, but was un- — 
attended with the same impatience. I desired the removal — 
of his suspicions, not for the sake of regaining his love but ~ 


because I delighted in the veneration of so excellent a man, and 


~ 


because he himself would derive pleasure from conviction of — 


my integrity. 


My uncle had early informed me that Pleyel and he had . 


seen each other since the return of the latter from Europe. 
Amid the topies of their conversation I discovered that 


Pleyel had carefully omitted the mention of those events - 
which had drawn upon me so much abhorrence. I could not 


y se 
aks 


ct 


ee] 


q 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 217 


account for his silence on this subject. Perhaps time or some 


new discovery had altered or shaken his opinion. Perhaps 
he was unwilling, though I were guilty, to injure me in the 
opinion of my venerable kinsman. I understood that he had 
frequently visited me during my disease, had watched many 
successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost 
anxiety on my account. 

The journey which he was preparing to take at the termi- 
nation of our last interview, the catastrophe of the ensuing 
night induced him to delay. The motives of this journey I 
had till now totally mistaken. They were explained to me by 
my uncle, whose tale excited my astonishment without awak- 
ening my regret. In a different state of mind it would have 
added unspeakably to my distress, but now it was more a 
source of pleasure than pain. This, perhaps, is not the 


least. extraordinary of the facts contained in this narrative. 


It will excite less wonder when I add that my indifference 
was temporary and that the lapse of a few days showed me 
that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather than finally 
extinguished. 

Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived the 
resolution of seeking her lover in America. To conceal her 
fheht she had caused the report of her death to be propa- 
gated. She put herself under the conduct of Bertrand, the 
faithful servant of Pleyel. The packet which the latter re- 
ceived from the hands of his servant contained the tidings © 
of her safe arrival at Boston, and to meet her there was the 
purpose of his journey. 

This discovery had set this man’s character in a new light. 
Thad mistaken the heroism of friendship for the frenzy of 


Jove. He who had gained my affections may be supposed to 
have previously entitled himself to my reverence ; but the 


levity which had formerly characterized the behavior of this 


‘man tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. I 
did not fail to remark that, since this lady was still alive, the 
yoice in the temple which asserted her death must either 


918 : - WIELAND ; OR, 


have been intended to deceive or have been itself deceived. 
The latter supposition was inconsistent with the notion of a 
spiritual and the former with that of a benevolent being. 

When my disease abated Pleyel had forborne his visits, and ~ 
had. lately. set out upon this journey. This amounted toa 
proof that my guilt was still believed by him. I was grieved 
for his errors, but trusted that my vindication would, sooner 
or later, be made. 3 

Meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat by a 
proposal made to me by my uncle. He imagined that new 
airs would restore my languishing constitution, and a varied 
succession of objects tend to repair the shock which my mind 
had received. For this end he proposed to me to take up my 
abode with him in France or Italy. 

At a more prosperous period this scheme would have 
pleased for its own sake. Now my heart sickened at the pros- 
pect of nature. The world of man was shrouded in misery 
and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. I willmely 
closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it 
afforded me was so short. I marked with satisfaction the prog- 
ress of decay in my frame, and consented to live, merely in 
the hope that the course of nature would speedily relieve me 
from the burden. Nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme, 
I concurred in it merely because he was entitled to my grati- 
tude, and because my refusal gave him pain. 

No sooner was he informed “of my consent than he told BS 
I must make immediate preparation to embark, as the slip in 
which he had engaged a passage would be ready to depart in 
three days. This expedition was unexpected. There was an 
impatience in his manner when he urged the necessity of de- 
spatch that excited my surprise. When I questioned him as_ 
to the cause of this haste he generally stated reasons which, 
at that time, I could not deny to be plausible, but which, on ~ 
the review, appeared insufficient. I suspected that the true 
motives were concealed, and believed that these motives had 
some connection with my brother’s destiny. 


THE TRANSFORMATION. cacy ie 
T now recollected that the information respecting Wieland 
which had from time to time been imparted to me was always 
accompanied with airs of reserve and mysteriousness. What 
had appeared sufficiently explicit at the time it was uttered 
I now remembered to have been faltering and ambiguous. I 
was resolved to remove my doubts by visiting the unfortunate 
nan in his dungeon. Heretofore the idea of this visit had 


occurred to me, but the horrors of his dwelling-place, his 
wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks, the fetters 


_,which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were in descrip- 


a 
4 
oh 


tion, how could I endure to behold ? 

Now, however, that I was preparing to take an everlasting 
farewell of my country, now that an ocean was henceforth to 
separate me from him, how could I part without an interview ? 
I would examine his situation with my own eyes. I would 
know whether the representations which had been made to 
-me were true. Perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was 


| wont to love with a passion more than fraternal might have 
_/| an auspicious influence on his malady. 


t 


- Having formed this resolution, I waited to communicate it 
to Mr. Cambridge. I was aware that without his concurrence 
I could not hope to carry it into execution, and could discover 
no objection to which it was liable. If I had not been de- 
ceived as to his condition, no inconvenience could arise from 
this proceeding. His consent, therefore, would be the test of 
his sincerity. 

I seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this head. 
My suspicions were confirmed by the manner in which my re- 
quest affected him. After some pause, in which his counte- 
nance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said to me, 
«Why would you pay this visit? What useful purpose can 
it serve?” 3 

“We are preparing,” said I, “to leave the country forever. 
What kind of being should I be to leave behind me a brother 
in calamity without,cven a parting interview? Indulge me 
for three minutes in the sight of him. My heart will be much 


Beg Rees Sekt Lak a 
Ra vee iia, peeag RL 


ae PUA Pte aera 


WIELAND; OR, 


easier after I have looked at him and shed a few tears in hig 
presence.” 

“I believe otherwise. The sight of him would only aug- 
ment your distress without contributing in any degree to his 
benefit.” 7 | 

“J know not that,” returned I. “Surely the sympathy of 
his sister, proofs that ler tenderness is as lively as ever, must 
be a source of satisfaction to him. At present he must re- 
gard all mankind as his enemies and calumniators. His sister 


5 


he, probably, conceives to partake in the general infatuation, 


and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is raised against him, 
To be undeceived in this respect, to be assured that, however 


I may impute his conduct to delusion, I still retain all my - 


former affection for his person and veneration for the purity 
of his motives cannot but afford him pleasure. When he 
hears that I have left the country without even the ceremoni- 
ous attention of a visit, what will he think of me? His mine- 
nanimity may hinder him from repining, but he will surely 
consider my behavior as savage and unfeeling. Indeed, dear 
sir, I must pay ‘this visit. To embark with you without pay- 
ing it will be impossible. It may be of no service to him, but 
will enable me to acquit myself of what I cannot but esteem 


a duty. Besides,” continued I, “if it be a mere fit of insanity 


that has seized him, may not mv presence chance to have a 
3 PY 


' 


salutary influence? The mere sight of me, it is not impos- ’ 


sible, may rectify lis perceptions.” 

“Ay,” said my uncle, with some eagerness ; ‘it is by no 
means impossible that your interview may have that effect, 
and for that reason, beyond all others, would I dissuade you 
froin it.” 

1 expressed my surprise at this declaration. ‘Is it not to 
be desired that an error so fatal as this should be rectified ?” 

“T wonder at your question. Reflect on the consequences 
of this error. Has he not destroyed the wife whom he loved, 
the children whom he idolized? What is it that enables him 
to bear the remembrance but the belief that he acted as his 


al 


= es ic) 
TRA 


THE 


'SFORMA 


= duty enjoined ? Would you rashly bereave him of this be- 


lief?» Would you restore him to himself aud convince him that 
he was instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of 
his organs or a delusion from hell ? 

‘Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceives him- 
self to have reached a loftier degree of virtue than any other 
human being. The merit of his sacrifice is only enhanced, in 
the eyes of superior beings, by the detestation that pursues 
him here and the sufferings to which he is condemned. The 
belief that even his sister has deserted him and gone over to 
his enemies adds to his sublimity of feelings and his con- 
fidence in divine approbation and future recompense. 

‘* Let him be undeceived in this respect, and what floods of 
despair and of horror will overwhelm him! Instead of glowing 
approbation and serene hope will he not hate and torture 
himself? Self-violence, or a frenzy far more savage and de- 
structive than this; may be expected to succeed. I beseech — 
you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme. If you calmly re- 
flect upon it you will discover that your duty lies in carefully 

shunning him.” : 

Mr. Cambridge’s reasonines suggested views to my under- 
standing that had not hitherto occurred. I could not: but 
admit their validity ; but they showed in a new light the 
depth of that misfortune in which my brother was plunged. 
I was silent and irresolute. 

Presently I considered that whether Wieland was a maniac, 
a faithful servant of his God, the victim of hellish illusions, or 
the dupe of human imposture, was by no means certain. In 
this state of my mind, it became me to be silent during the 
visit that I projected. This visit should be brief; I should 
be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him. Admitting that 
a change in his opinions was not to be desired, there was no 
danger, from the conduct which I should pursue, that this 
change should be wrought. 

But I could not conquer my uncle’s aversion to this scheme. 

Yet I persisted ; and he found that, to make me voluntarily 


Ee ea ERE See ISU e yy Age eee a 
: : POSH Ot ay af 


i OVE BN Seay : ; 
999 WIELAND; OR, 


relinquish it, it was necessary to be more explicit than he had 
hitherto been. He took both my hands, and, anxiously ex- 
-amining my countenance as he spoke, “ Clara,” said he, 
“this visit must not be paid. We must hasten with the ut- 
most expedition from this shore. It is folly to conceal the 
truth from you; and, since it is only by disclosing the truth 
that you can be prevailed upon to lay aside this Projects the 
truth shall be told. 

“Oh, my dear girl!” continued he, with increasing energy 
in his accent, “ your brother's frenzy is, indeed, stupendous 
and frightful. The soul that formerly actuated his frame has 
disappeared. The same form remains but the wise and 
bencvolent Wieland is no more. A fury that is rapacious of 
blood, that lifts his strength almost above that. of mortals, 
that bends all his energies to the destruction of whatever was 
once dear to him, possesses him wholly. 

“You must not enter his dungeon ; his eyes will no sooner 
be fixed upon you than an exertion of his force will be made. 
He will shake off his fetters ina moment and rush upon you. 
No interposition will then be strong or quick enough to save you. 

“The phantom that has urged him to the murder of Cath- 
arine and her children is not yet appeased. Your life, and 
that of Pleyel, are exacted from him by this imaginary being. 
He is eager to comply with this demand. Twice he has es- 
ciped from his prison. The first time, he no sooner found 
himself at liberty than he hastened to Pleyel’s house. It be- — 
ing midnight, the latter was in bed. Wieland penetrated un- 
observed to his chamber, and opened his curtain. Happily, 
Pleyel awoke at the critical moment, and escaped the fury of 
his kinsman by leaping from his chamber-window into the 
court. Happily, he reached the sround without injury. 
Alarms were given, and after diligent search your brother 
was found ina chamber of your house, whither, no GRBs hose 
had sought you. 

“His chains and the watchfulness of his guards were re- 
doubled ; but again, by some miracle, he restored himself to 


THE TRANSFORMATION. © = 928 
liberty. He was now incautiously apprised of the place of 
your abode, and had not information of his escape been in- 

Eee stantly given your death would have been added to the num- 

~~ ber of his atrocious acts. 

. “ You now see the danger of your project. You must not 
only forbear to visit him, but, if you would save hin from the 
crime of imbruing his hands in your blood, you must leave 
the country. There is no hope that his malady will end but 
with his life, and no precaution will insure your safety but 

_ that of placing the ocean between you. 

“T confess I came over with an intention to reside among 
you; but these disasters have changed my views. Your own 
safety and my happiness require that you should accompany 
me in my return, and I entreat you to give your cheerful con- 

z currence to this measure.” 

After these representations from my uncle it was impossi- 
ble to retain my purpose. I readily consented to seclude my- 
self from Wieland’s presence. I likewise acquiesced in the 
proposal to go to Europe; not that I ever expected to arrive 

. there, but because, since my principles forbade me to assail 

my own life, change had some tendency to make supportable 
the few days which disease should spare to me. | 

What a tale had thus been unfolded! Iwas hunted to | 
death, not by one whom my misconduct had exasperated, who 
was conscious of illicit motives, and who sought his end by 
circumvention and surprise, but by one who deemed himself 
commissioned for this act by Heaven, who regarded this 
eareer of horror as the last refinement of virtue, whose im- 
placability was proportioned to the reverence and love which 
he felt for me, and who was inaccessible to the fear of punish- 

| ment and ignominy. 
-__Invain should I endeavor to stay his hand by urging the 
claims of a sister or friend—these were his only reasons for 
pursuing my destruction. Had I been a stranger to his 
‘blood, had I been the most worthless of human kind, my 
safety had not been endangered. 


74 


994 << WIELAND ; OR, « 


“Surely,” said I, “my fate is without example. The frenzy 
which is charged upon my brother must belong to myself. — 
My foe is manacled and guarded; but I derive no security 
from these restraints. I live not in a community of savages ; 
yet, whether I sit or walk, go into crowds or hide myself in 
solitude, my life is marked for prey to inhuman violence ; L 
am in perpetual danger of perishing—of perishing under 
the grasp of a brother.” 

I recollected the omens of this destiny, Tremembered the 
eulf to which my brother's invitation had conducted me, I 
remembered that, when on the brink of danger, the author of 
my peril was depicted by my fears in his form.. Thus real- 
ized were the creatures of prophetic sleep and wakeful ter- 
ror ! 

These images were unavoidably connected with that of 
Carwin. In this paroxysm of distress my attention was fas- 
tened on him as the grand deceiver, the author of this black 
conspiracy, the intelligence that governed in this storm. 

Some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering when its 
author is discovered or imagined and an object found on 
which we may pour ont our indignation and our vengeance. 
I ran over the events that had taken place since the origin of 
our intercourse with him, and reflected on the tenor of that 
description which was received from Ludloe. Mixed up with 
notions of supernatural agency were the vehement suspicions 
which I entertained, that Carwin was the enemy whose mach- 
mations had destroyed us. 

I thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. I regarded — 
my hasty departure with reluctance, since it would remove 
me from the means by which this knowledge might be obe 
tained and this vengeance gratified. This departure was to- 
take place in two days. At the end of two days I was to bid 
an eternal adieu to my native country. Should I not pay a 
parting visit to the scenes of these disasters ? Should [I not — 
bedew with my tears the graves of my sister and her chil- 
dren? Should I not explore their desolate habitation, and_ 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 225 
eather from its walls and furniture food for my eternal 
melancholy ? 

This suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering. 
Some disastrous influence appeared to overcome the scene. 
How many memorials should I meet with serving to recall the 


images of those I had lost! 
I was tempted to relinquish my design, when it occurred to 


me that I had left among my papers a journal of transactions | 


in short-hand. Iwas employed on this manuscript on-that 
night when Pleyel’s incautious curiosity tempted him to look 
over my shoulder. I was then recording my adventure in 
the recess, an imperfect sight of which led him into such fatal 
errors. 

[had regulated the disposition of all my property. This 
manuscript, however, which contained the most secret trans- 
actions of my life, I was desirous of destroying. For this 
end I must return to my house, and this I immediately deter- 
mined to do. 

I was not willing to expose myself to opposition from my 
friends by mentioning my design ; I therefore bespoke the 
use of Mr. Hallet’s chaise, under pretence of enjoying an air- 
ing, as the day was remarkably bright. 

This request was gladly complied with, and I directed ie 
servant to conduct me to Mettingen. I dismissed him at the 
gate, intending to use, in returning, a carriage belonging 
to my brother. 

\ 


‘ . CHAPTER XXII. 


Tar inhabitants of the Hur received me with a mixture of | 
joy and surprise. Their homely welcome and their artless — 


sympathy were grateful to my feelings. In the midst of their 
inquiries as to my health they avoided all allusions to the 
source of my malady. They were honest creatures and IT 
loved them well. I participated in the tears which they shed 
when I mentioned to them my speedy departure for Europe 
and promised to acquaint them with my welfare during my 
long absence. 

They expressed great surprise when I informed them of my 
intention to visit my cottage. Alarm and foreboding over- 
spread their features, and they attempted to dissuade me 
from visiting a house which they firmly believed to be haunted 
by a thousand ghostly apparitions. i 

These apprehensions, however, had no power over my con- 
~ duct. Itook an irregular path which led me tomy own house. 
All was vacant and forlorn. A small enclosure near which the 
path led was the burying-ground belonging to the family. 
This I was obliged to pass. Once I had intended to enter it 
and ponder on the emblems and inscriptions which my uncle 
had caused to be made on the tombs of Catharine and her 
children ; but now my heart faltered as I approached, and I 
hastened forward that distance might conceal it from my 
view. | 

When I approached the recess my heart again sank. I 
averted my eyes, and left it behind me as quickly as possible. 
Silence reigned through my habitation, and a darkness which 
| closed doors and shutters produced. Every object was con- 
nected with mine or my brother's history. passed the entry, 


pt 


THE TRANSFORMATION. eb 7 


mounted the stair, and unlocked the door of my chamber. It 
was with difficulty that I curbed my fancy and smothered my. 
fears. Slight movements and casual sounds were transformed 
into beckoning shadows and calling shapes. me 

I proceeded to the closet. I opened and looked round it 
with fearfulness. All things were in their accustomed order. 
I sought and found the manuscript where I was used to deposit 
it. This being secured, there was nothing to detain me; yet 
I stood and contemplated awhile the furniture and walls of 
my chamber. I remembered how long this apartment had | 
been a sweet and tranquil asylum ; I: compared its former — 
state with its present dreariness, and reflected that I now be- 
held it for the last time. 

Here it was that the incomprehensible behavior of Carwin — 
was witnessed, this the stage on which that enemy of mau 
showed himself for a moment unmasked. Here the menaces 
of murder were wafted to my ear, and here these menaces 
were executed. 

These thoughts had a tendency to take from me my self- 
command. My feeble limbs refused to support me, and I 
sank upon a chair. Incoherent and half-articulate exclama- 
tions escaped my lips. The name of Carwin was uttered, and 
eternal woes, woes like that which his malice had entailed 
upon us, were heaped upon him. I invoked all-seeing Heaven - 
fo drag to light and punish this betrayer, and accused its 3 
providence for having thus long delayed the retribution that 
was due toso enormous a guilt. 

I have said that the window-shutters were closed. A feeble 
light, however, found entrance through the crevices. A small 
window illuminated the closet, and, the door being closed, 
dim ray streamed through the key-hole. A kind of twilight 
was thus created, sufficient for the purposes of vision, but, at_ 
the same time, involving all minuter objects in obscurity. 

This darkness suited the color of my thoughts. I sickened 
at the remembrance of the past. The prospect of the future 
excited my loathing. I muttered, in a low voice, “ Why 


998 WIELAND; OR, 


should I live longer? Why should I drag a miserable being? 
All for whom I ought to live have perished. Am I not my- 
self hunted to death?” : 

At that moment my despair suddenly became vigorous. | 
My nerves were no longer unstrung. My powers, that had 
long been deadened, were revived. My bosom swelled witha 
sudden energy, and the conviction darted through my mind, 
that to end my torments was, at once, practicable and wise. 

I knew how to find way to the recesses of life. I could use 
a lancet with some skill, and could distinguish between vein 
and artery. By piercing deep into the latter, I should shun 
the evils which the future had in store for me, and take refuge 
from my woes in quiet death. 

I started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone, and hast- 
ened to the closet. A lancet and other small instruments 
were preserved in a case which I had deposited here. In- 
attentive as I was to foreign considerations my ears were 
still open to any sound of mysterious import that should oc- 
cur. I thought I heard a step in the entry. My purpose 
was suspended, and I cast an eager glance at my chamber 
door, which was open. No one appeared, unless the shad- 
ow which I discerned upon the floor was the outline of a 
man. If it were, I was authorized to suspect that some one 
was posted close to the entrance, who possibly had over- 
heard my exclamations. 

My teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took the place 
of my momentary calm. Thus it was when a terrific visage 
had disclosed itself on a former night. Thus it was when 
the evil destiny of Wieland assumed the lineaments of 
something human. What horrid apparition was preparing 
to blast my sight? a 

Still I listened and gazed. Not long, for the shadow 
moved; a foot, unshapely and huge, was thrust forward ; a 
form advanced from its concealment and stalked into the 
room. It was Carwin! ; 

While I had breath I shrieked. While I had power over 


eater Oe Sy ee OREN CN Bat oars Le Petes oe) 
Ves fii Say Sethe ae NS alt aN CR) at NC eR 
Re eee eT eee pete Bil 
3  \ 


THE TRANSFORMATION. ~ 229 


my muscles I motioned with my hand that he should vanish. 
My exertions could not last long: I sank into a fit. 

Oh that this graceful oblivion had lasted forever! Too 
quickly I recovered my senses. The power of distinct vision 
was no sooner restored to me than this hateful form again 
presented itself, and I once more relapsed. 

A second time, untoward nature recalled me from the sleep 
of death. I found myself stretched upon the bed. When 
I had power to look up I remembered only that I had cause 
to fear. My distempered fancy fashioned to itself no dis- 
tinguishable image. I threw a languid elance round me ; 
once more my eyes lighted upon Carwin. | 

He was seated on the floor, his back rested against the wall, 
his knees were drawn up, and his face was buried in his hands. 
That his station was at some distance, that his attitude was 
not menacing, that his ominous visage was concealed, may ac- 
count for my now escaping a shock violent as those which 
were past. I withdrew my eyes, but was not again deserted 
by my senses. 

On perceiving that I had recovered my sensibility he lifted 
his head. This motion attracted my attention. His counte- 
nance was mild, but sorrow and astonishment sat upon his — 
features. I averted my eyes and feebly exclaimed, “Oh, 
fly !—-fly far and forever !—I cannot behold you and live!” 

He did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands, and 
said in a tone of deprecation, “I will fly. I am become a 
fiend, the sight of whom destroys. Yet tell me my offence ! 
You have linked curses with my name, you ascribe to mea 
malice monstrous and infernal. I look around—all is loneli- 
ness and desert! This house and your brother’s are solitary 
and dismantled! You die away at the sight ofme! My fear 
whispers that some deed of horror has been perpetrated, that 
I am the undesigning cause.” - 

What language was this? Had he not avowed himself a 
ravisher? Had not this chamber witnessed his atrocious 
purposes? I besought him with new vehemence to go. 


1280 ye AN DS OR, oe ee 


He lifted his eyes: “Great heaven! what have I done? I~ 
think I know the extent of my offences. I have acted, but my 
actious have possibly effected more than I designed. This 
fear has brought me back from my retreat. I come to repair 
the evil of which my rashness was the causé and to prevent 
more evil. JI come to confess my errors.” Z 

“Wretch!” I cried, when my suffocating emotions would 


permit me to speak, “the ghosts of my sister and her chil- 


dren—do they not rise to accuse thee? Who was it that 
blasted the intellect of Wieland? Who wasit that ur ged him 
to fury and guided him to murder? Who, but thou and the 
devil, with whom thou art confederated ? ” 


At these words a new spirit pervaded his countenance. 
‘His eyes once more appealed to heaven: “If I have mem- 


ory, if I have being, I am innocent. I intended no ill, but 
my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have caused it. But 
what words are these? Your brother lunatic! His children 
dead !” 

What should I infer from this deportment? Was the 
ignorance which these words implied real or pretended? Yet 
how could T imagine a mere human agency in these events ? 
But, if the influence was preternatural or maniacal in my 
brother’s case they must be equally so in my own. Then I 
remembered that the voice exerted was to save me from Car- 
win's attempts, These ideas tended to abate my abhor- 
rence of this man, and to detect the absurdity of my ac- 
cusations. 

“Alas!” said I, “I have no one to accuse. eave me to 
my fate. Fly from a scene stained with cruelty, devoted to 
despair.” aca depen 

Carwin stood for a time musing and ened At length 
he said, ‘What has happened ? I came to expiate my crimes: 


let me know them in their full extent. I have horrible fore- ~ 
bodings! What has happened ?” : 


I was silent ; but, recollecting the intimation given by this 
man when he was detected in my closet, which implied some 


2 


THE TRANSFORMATION. i 931 


knowledge of that power which interfered in my favor, I 
eagerly inquired, ‘“‘What was that voice which called upon 


-me to hold when I attempted to open the closet? What face 


was that which I saw at the bottom of the stairs? Answer 
me truly.” . 

‘I came to confess the truth. ‘Your allusions are horrible 
and strange. Perhaps I have but faint conceptions of the 
evils which my infatuation has produced ; but what remains 
T will perform. It was my voice that you heard! It was my 
face that you saw !.” 

For a moment I doubted whether my remembrance of 
events were not confused. How could he be at once stationed 
at my shoulder and shut up in my closet? How could he 
stand near me and yet be invisible? But if Carwin’s were 
the thrilling voice and the fiery image which I had heard and 
seen, then was he the prompter of my brother, and the author 


_ of these dismal outrages. 


Once more I averted my eyes and struggled for speech. 
‘¢ Beoone! thou man of mischief ! Remorseless and implacable 
miscreant, begone ! ” 

“TJ will obey,” said he, in a disconsolate voice ; ‘‘ yet, wretch 
as I am, am I unworthy to repair the evils that I have com- 
mitted? Icame asarepentant criminal. It is you whom I 
have injured, and at your bar am I willing to appear and 
confess and expiate my crimes, I have deceived you, I have 
sported, with your terrors, I have plotted to destroy your 
reputation. Icome now to remove your terrors, to set you 


beyond the reach of similar fears, to rebuild your fame as~ 


far as L am able. 
«This is the amount of my guilt and this the fruit. of my 


remorse. Will you not hear me? Listen to my confession — 


and then denounce punishment. All I ask is a patient au- 
dience.” | 


“What!” I replied, was not thine the voice that com= 


-manded my brother to imbrue his hands in the blood of his 


children—to strangle that angel of sweetness, his wife? Has 


bo 


WIELAND ;. OR, 


he not vowed my death and the death of Pleyel at thy bid- 
ding? Hast thou not made him the butcher of his family— 
changed him who was the glory of his species into worse than ~ 
brute—robbed him of reason and consigned the rest of his 
days to fetters and stripes?” 

Carwin’s eyes glared and his limbs were petrified at this 
intelligence. No words were requisite to prove him guiltless 
of these enormities; at the time, however, I was nearly in- 
sensible to these exculpatory tokens. He walked to the 
farther end of the room, and, having recovered some degree 
of composure, he spoke: 

“Tam not this villain. I have slainno one; I have prompt- 
ed none to slay ; I have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy 
without malignant intentions, but without caution. Ample 
will be the punishment of my temerity if my conduct has 
contributed to this evil.” He paused. 

_ I likewise was silent. I struggled to command myself so 
far as to listen to the tale which he should tell. Observing 
this, he continued : 3 

“You are not apprised of the existence of a power which 

I possess. I know not by what name to call it.* It enables 


* Buoquium, or ventrilocution. Sound is varied according to the 
variations of direction and distance. The art of the ventriloquist con- 
sists in modifying his voice according to all these variations, without ~ 
changing his place. See the work of the Abbe de la Chappelle, in 
which are accurately recorded the performances of one of these artists, 
and some ingenious though unsatisfactory speculations are given on the 
means by which the effects are produced. This power is, perhaps, 
given by nature, but is doubtless improvable, if not acquirable, by art. 
It may, possibly, consist in an unusual flexibility or extension of the 
bottom of the tongue and the uvula. That speech is producible by : 
these alone must be granted, since anatomists mention two instances of 
persons speaking withoutatongue. In one case the organ wag originally 
wanting, but its place was supplied by a small tubercle, and the uvula 
was perfect. In the other the tongue was destroyed by disease but 
probably a small part of it remained. x 

This power is difficult to explain, but the fact is undeniable. Hx- 
perience shows that the human voice can imitate the voice of all men 


~ 


THR TRANSFORMATION. 288 


‘me to mimic exactly the voice of another, and to modify the 


- 


sound so that it shall appear to come from what quarter and 
be uttered at what distance I please. 

“7 know not that everyone possesses this power. Perhaps, 
though a casual position of my organs in my youth showed 
me that I possessed it, it is an art which may be taught to 
all. Would to God I had died unknowing of the secret! It 
has produced nothing but degradation and calamity. 

“For a time the possession of so potent and stupendous 
an endowment elated me with pride. Unfortified by principle, 
subjected to poverty, stimulated by headlong passions, I made 
this powerful engine subservient to the supply of my wants 
and the gratification of my vanity. I shall not mention how 
diligently I cultivated this gift, which seemed capable of un- 
limited improvement; nor detail the various occasions on 
which it was successfully exerted to lead superstition, con- 
quer avarice, or excite awe. 

“T left America, which is my native soil, in my youth I 
have been engaged in various scenes of life, in which my 
peculiar talent has been exercised with more or less success. 
I was finally betrayed, by one who called himself my friend, 
into acts which cannot be justified, though they are sus- 
ceptible of apology. 

«The perfidy of this man compelled me to withdraw from 
Europe. I returned to my native country, uncertain whether 
silence and obscurity would save me from his malice. I 
resided in the purlieus of the city. I put on the garb and 
assumed the manners of a clown. 

“My thief recreation was walking. My principal haunts 
were the lawns and gardens of Mettingen. In this delightful 
region the luxuriances of nature had been chastened by 


and of all inferior animals. The sound of musical instruments, and 
even noises from the contact of inanimate substances, have been ac-— 
curately imitated. The mimicry of animals is notorious; and Dr. 
Burney (Musical Travels) mentions one wo imitated a flute and 


violin so as to deceive even his ears. 


ae 


934 WINLAND ; 


judicious art, and each successive contemplation unfolded | 
new enchantments. ee 

“T was studious of seclusion; I was satiated with the inter- 
course of mankind, and siscesuen required me to shun their 
intercourse. Ifor these reasons I long avoided the observa- 
tion of your family, and chiefly visited these precincts at — 
night. . 

“JT was never weary of admiring the position and ornaments — 
of the temple. Many a night have I passed under its roof, — 
revolving no pleasing meditations. When, in my frequent — 
rambles, I perceived. this apartment was occupied, I gave a 
different direction to my steps. One evening, when a shower 
had just passed, judging by the silence that no one was 
within, I ascended to this building. Glancing carelessly 
round I perceived an open letter on the pedestal. To read 
it was doubtless an offence against politeness. Of this offence, 
however, I was guilty. 

“Scarcely had I gone half through when I was alarmed 
by the approach of your brother. To scramble down the 
cliff on the opposite side was impracticable. I was unpre- 
pared to meeta stranger. Besides the awkwardness attend- 
ing such an interview in these circumstances, concealment 
was necessary to my safety. A thousand times had I vowed 
never again to employ the dangerous talent whichI possessed ; 
but such was the force of habit and the influence of present 
convenience that I used this method of arresting his progress 
and leading him back to the house, with his errand, whatever 
it was, unperformed. I had often caught parts, from my 
station below, of your conversation in this place, and was well 
acquainted with the voice of your sister. | 
-. “Some weeks after this I was again quietly seated in this . 
recess. The lateness of the hour secured me, as I thought, © 
from all interruption. In this, however, I was mistaken ; for 
. Wieland and Pleyel, as I judged by their voices, earnest in ~ 
’ dispute, ascended the hill. 


‘JT was not sensible that er ee Sour possibly. 


a " a x 


ANSFORMATI 


have flowed from my former exertion ; yet it was followed 

with compunction because it was a deviation from a path 
which I had assigned to myself. Now, my aversion to this 
“means of escape was enforced by an unauthorized curi- 
osity, and by the knowledge of a bushy hollow on the edge of 
the hill, where I should be safe from discovery. Into this 
hollow I thrust myself. 

“The propriety of removal to Europe was the question 
eagerly discussed. Pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go 
was augmented by the silence of Theresa de Stolbere. The 
temptation to interfere in this dispute was irresistible. In 
vain I contended with inveterate habits. I diseuised to my- 
self the impropriety of my conduct, by recollecting the bene- 
fits which it might produce. Pleyel’s proposal was unwise, 
yet it was enforced with plausible arguments and indefatiga- 
ble zeal. Your brother might be puzzled and wearied, but 
could not be convinced. I conceived that to terminate the 
controversy in favor of the latter was conferring a benefit on 
all parties. For this end I profited by an opening in the 
conversation, and assured them of Catharine’s irreconcilable 
aversion to the scheme, and of the death of the Saxon baron- 
ess. The latter event was merely a conjecture, but rendered 
extremely probable by Pleyel’s representations. My purpose, 
you need not be told, was effected. ae 

““My passion for mystery, and a species of imposture, 
which I deemed harmless, was thus awakened afresh. This 
second lapse into error made my recovery more difficult. I 
cannot convey to you an adequate idea of the kind of eratifica- 
tion which I derived from these exploits ; vet I meditated 
nothing. My views were bounded to the passing moment, 

and commonly suggested by the momentary exigence. 
 “Tmust not conceal anything. Your principles teach you 
to abhor a voluptuous temper ; but, with whatever reluctance, 


~ J acknowledge this temper to be mine. You imagine your 


servant Judith to be innocent as well as beautiful ; but you 
_ took her from a family where hypocrisy as well as licentious- 


WF oS 


ness was wrought into a system. My attention was capti-- 
vated by her charms, and her principles were easily seen to 
be flexible. : 

‘“Deem me not capable of the iniquity of seduction. Your 
servant is not destitute of feminine and virtuous qualities ; 
but she was taught that the best use of her charms consists 
in the sale of them. ~My nocturnal visits to Mettingen were 


now prompted by a double view, and my correspondence with 


your servant gave me, at all times, access to your house, 

“The second night after our interview, so brief and so little 
foreseen by either of us, some demon of mischief seized me. 
According to my companion’s report, your perfections were 
little less than divine. Her uncouth but copious narratives | 
converted you into an object of worship. She chiefly dwelt 
upon your courage, because she herself was deficient in that 
quality. You held apparitions and goblins in contempt. You 
took no precautions against robbers. You were just as tran- 
quil and secure in this lonely dwelling as if you were in the 
midst of a crowd. 

“Hence a vague project occurred to me to put this courage 
to the test. A woman capable of recollection in danger, of 
warding off groundless panics, of discerning the true mode of 


proceeding and profiting by her best resources, is a prodigy. 


I was desirous of ascertaining whether you were such a one, 
“ My expedient was obvious and simple. I was to counter- 


WIRLAND ; (OR, 0 2 eee 


feit a murderous dialogue ; but this was to be so conducted — 


that another, and not yourself, should appear to be the ‘ 


object. I was not aware of the possibility that you should © 


appropriate these menaces to yourself. Had you _been still 
and listened, you would have heard the struggles and prayers 
of the victim, who would likewise have appeared to be shut 
up in the closet, and whose voice would have been Judith’s. 
This scene would have been an appeal to your compassion ; 
and the proof of cowardice or courage which I expected from 


you would have been your remaining inactive in your bed, or Fe 
your entering the closet with a view to assist the sufferer, 


Shs ; jon 
we REVS ob < 


eee. THE TRANSFORMATION... © os 234 

- Some instances which Judith related of your fearlessness and 

; promptitude made me adopt the latter supposition with some 
degree of confidence. 

«By the girl’s direction I found a ladder, and mounted to 
-your closet window. This is scarcely large enough to admit 
the head, but it answered my purpose too well. 

«T cannot express my confusion and surprise at your 
abrupt and precipitate flight. I hastily removed the ladder ; 
and, after some pause, curiosity and doubts of your safety 
induced me to follow you. I found you stretched on the turf 
before your brother’s door without sense or motion. I felt 
the deepest regret at this unlooked-for consequence of my 
scheme. I knew not what to do to procure you relief. The 
idea of awakening the family naturally. presented itself. This 
emergency was critical, and there was no time to deliberate. 
It was a sudden thought that occurred. I put my lips to 
the key-hole, and sounded an alarm which effectually roused 
the sleepers. My organs were naturally forcible, and had 
been improved by long and assiduous exercise. 

“Longe and bitterly did I repent of my scheme. I was 
somewhat consoled by reflecting that my purpose had not 
been evil, and renewed my fruitless vows never to attempt 
such dangerous experiments. For some time I adhered, 

~ with laudable forbearance, to this resolution. 

«My life has been a life of hardship and exposure. In the 
summer I prefer to make my bed of the smooth turf, or, at 
most, the shelter of a summer-house suffices. In all my 
rambles I never found a spot in: which so many picturesque 
beauties and rural delights were assembled as at Mettingen. 
No corner of your little domain unites fragrance and secrecy 
in so perfect a degree as the recess in the bank. The odor 

of its leaves, the coolness of its shade, and the music of its 
waterfall had early attracted my attention. Here my sadness 
__was converted into peaceful melancholy ; here my slumbers | 
ee _ were sound, and my pleasures enhanced. 3 
“As most free from interruption, I chose this as the scene 


. 


_ 


Be ee re 


of my midnight interviews with Judith. One evening, as 
the sun declined, I was seated here, when I was alarmed by 
your approach. It was with difficulty that I effected m 
escape unnoticed by you. 3 

‘At the customary hour I returned to your habitation, and 
was made acquainted by Judith with your unusual absence. 
I half suspected the true cause, and felt uneasiness at the 
danger there was that I should be deprived of my retreat, or, 
at least, interrupted in the possession of it. The girl like- 
wise informed me that, among your other singularities, it was 
not uncommon for you to leave your bed and walk forth for 
the sake of night-airs and starlight contemplations. 


“I desired to prevent this inconvenience. I found you 


easily swayed by fear. I was influenced in my choice of 
means by the facility and certainty of that to which T had 
been accustomed. All that I foresaw wag that, in future, 
this spot would be cautiously shunned by you. 

“J entered the recess with the utmost caution, and dis. 
covered, by your breathings, in what condition you were. 
The unexpected interpretation which you placed upon my 
former proceeding suggested my conduct on the present 
occasion. The mode in which heaven is said by the poet to 
interfere for the prevention of crimes* was somewhat analo- 3 
‘gous to my province, and never failed to occur to meat seasons ~ 
like this. It was requisite to break your slumbers ; and for 
this end I uttered the powerful monosyllable, ‘Hold! hold!’ 
My purpose was not prescribed by duty, yet surely it was far 
from being atrocious and inexpiable. To effect it, I uttered 
what was false; but it was well suited to my purpose. Noth- 
ing less was intended than to lujure you. Nay, the evil 
resulting from my former act was partly removed by assur- 
ing you that in all places but this you were safe. 


* «* ___ Peeps through the blanket of the dark, and cries 
Hold! hold! "—SuHAKESPEARE. 


\ 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


‘My morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my 
conduct will fall short of your suspicions. Iam now to con- 
fess actions less excusable ; and yet surely they will not en- 
title me to the name of a desperate or sordid criminal. 

“Your house was rendered, by your frequent and long ab- 
Sences, easily accessible to my curiosity. My meeting with 


Pleyel was the prelude to direct intercourse with you. I had 


seen much of the world; but your character exhibited a 
specimen of human powers that was wholly new to me. My 
intercourse with your servant furnished me with curious 
details of your domestic management, I was of a different 
sex ; I was not your husband ; Twas not even our friend; 
yet my knowledge of you was of that kind which conjugal 
intimacies can give, and, in some respects, more accurate, 


_ The observation of your domestic was guided by me. 


“You will not be surprised that I should sometimes profit 
by your absence, and adventure to exAmine with my own eyes 


the interior of your chamber. Upright and sincere, you used a 


no watchfulness, and practised no precautions. I serutinized 
everything and pried everywhere. Your closet was usually 


~ locked ; but it was once my fortune to find the key on a 


bureau. I opened and found new scope for my curiosity in 


your books. One of thesé was manuscript, and written in 
characters which essentially agreed with a short-hand system 


which I had learned from a Jesuit missionary. © 
“T cannot justify my conduct; yet my only crime was 


curiosity. I perused this volume with eagerness, - The intel- 


lect which it unveiled was brighter than my limited and 


_ feeble organs could bear, I was naturally inquisitive as to 


940  “'WIHLAND; OR, 


your ideas respecting my deportment and the mysteries that 
had lately occurred. 

“You know what you have written. You know that in this 
volume the key to your inmost soul was contained. If I had 
beén a profound and malignant impostor, what plenteous ma- 
terials were thus furnished me of stratagems and plots ! 


«The coincidence of your dream in the summer-house with — 


my exclamation was truly wonderful. The voice which warned 
you to forbear was, doubtless, mine, but mixed, by a common 
process of the fancy, with the train of visionary incidents. 

«J saw in a stronger light than ever the dangerousness of 
that instrument which I employed, and renewed my resolu- 
tions to abstain from the use of it in future; but I was des- 
tined perpetually to violate my resolutions. By some per- 
verse fate I was led into circumstances in which the exertion 
of my powers was the sole or the best means of escape. 

“On that memorable night on which our last interview took 
place I came as usual to Mettingen. Iwas apprised of your 
engagement at your brother's, from which you did not expect 
to return till late. Some incident suggested the design of 
visiting your chamber. Among your books which I had not 
examined might be something tending to illustrate your char- 
acter or the history of your family. Some intimation had 
been dropped by you in discourse respecting a performance 
of your father, in which some important transaction in his life 
was recorded. 

““T was desirous of seeing this book, and such was my habit- 
ual attachment to mystery that I preferred the clandestine 
perusal of it. Such were the motives that induced me to 
make this attempt. Judith, had disappeared, and, finding the 
house unoccupied, I supplied myself with a light and pro- 
ceeded to your chamber. 

“T found it easy, on experiment, to lock and unlock your 
closet door without the aid of a key. Ishut myself in this 


recess, and was busily exploring your shelves, when I heard 


some one enter the room below. I was at a loss who it could 


THE TRANSFORMATION. OAL 


be, whether you or your servant. Doubtful, however, as I, 
was, I conceived it prudent to extinguish the light. Scareely 
was this done, when some one entered the chamber. The foot- 
steps were easily distinguished to be yours. 

** My situation was now full of danger and perplexity. For 
some time I cherished the hope that you would leave the room 
so long as to afford me an opportunity of escaping. As the 
hours passed this hope gradually deserted me. It was plain 
that you had retired for the night. 

“I knew not how soon you might find occasion to enter the 
closet. I was alive to all the horrors of detection, and rumi- 
nated without ceasing on the behavior which it would be 
proper, in case of detection, to adopt. I was unable to dis- 
cover any consistent method of accounting for my being thus 
immured., 

“It occurred to me that I might withdraw you from your 
chamber for a few minutes by counterfeiting a voice from 
without. Some message from your brother might be delivered, 
requiring your presence at his house. I was deterred from 
this scheme by reflecting on the resolution I had formed, and 
on the possible evils that might result from it, Besides, it 
was not improbable that you would speedily retire to bed, and 
then, by the exercise of sufficient caution, I might hope to es- 
cape unobserved. 

“Meanwhile I listened with the deepest anxiety to every 
motion from without. I discovered nothing which betokened 
preparation for sleep. Instead of this, I heard deep-drawn 
sighs, and occasionally a half-expressed and mournful ejacula- 
tion. Hence Linferred that you were unhappy. The true 
state of your mind with regard to Pleyel your own pen had 
disclosed ; but I supposed you to be framed of such materials, 


that, though a momentary sadness might affect you, you were 


impregnable to any permanent and heartfelt orief. Inquietude 
for my own safety was for a moment suspended by sympathy 
with your distress. 

“To the former consideration I was quickly recalled by a 


249 OS WERLAND” OR, 1a 


motion of yours which indicated I knew not what. I fostered 
the persuasion that you would now retire to bed; but pres- 
ently you approached the closet, and detection seemed to be 
inevitable. You put your hand upon the lock. I had formed 
no plan to extricate myself from the dilemma in which the 
opening of the door would involve me. I felt an irreconcil- 
able aversion to detection. Thus situated, I involuntarily 
seized the door, with a resolution to resist your efforts to 
open it. 

‘Suddenly you receded from the door. ‘This deportment 
was inexplicable; but the relief it afforded me was quickly 
gone. You returned, andI once more was thrown into per- 
plexity. The expedient that suggested itself was precipitate 
and inartificial. I exerted my organs and called upon you to 
hold. — 

“That you should persist in spite of thisadmonition was a 
subject of astonishment. I again resisted your efforts ; for, 
-the first expedient having failed, I knew not what other to re- 
sort to. In this state, how was my astonishment increased 
when I heard your exclamations ! 

“Tt was now plain that you knew me to be within. Further 
resistance was unavailing and useless. The door opened, and 
-I shrank backward. Seldom have I felt deeper mortifica- 
tion and more painful perplexity. I did not consider that 
the truth would be less injurious than any lie which I could 
hastily frame. Conscious as I was of a certain degree of 
guilt I conceived that you would form the most odious sus- 
picions. The truth would be imperfect unless I were like- 
wise to explain the mysterious admonition which had been 
siven ; but that explanation was of too great moment, and in- 
volved too extensive consequences, to make me suddenly re- 
solve to give it. ; 

“IT was aware that this discovery would associate itself in 
your mind with the dialogue formerly heard in this closet. 
Thence would your suspicions be aggravated, and to escape’ 

from these suspicions would be impossible. But the mere | 


Cane 


THe TRANSFORMA TION. 940% 


truth would be sinfliciently opprobrious and deprive me for- 
ever of your good opinion. 

“Thus was Trendered desperate, and my mind rapidly 
passed to the contemplation of the use that might be made of 
previous events. Some good genius would appear to you to 
have interposed to save you from injury intended by me. 
‘Why, Isaid, ‘since I must sink in her opinion, should I 
not cherish this belief? Why not personate an enemy and 
pretend that celestial interference has frustrated my schemes ? 
I must fly; but let me leave wonder and fear behind me. 
Elucidation of the mystery will always be practicable. I shall 
do no injury, but merely talk of evil that was designed but is 
now past.’ 

“Thus I extenuated my conduct to myself; but I scarcely 
expect that this will be to you a sufficient explication of the 
scene that followed. Those habits which I have imbibed, the 
rooted passion which possesses me for scattering around me 
amazement and fear, you enjoy no opportunities of knowing. 
That.a man should wantonly impute to himself the most fla- 
eitious designs will hardly be credited, even though you re- 
flect that my reputation was already, by my own folly, irre- 


trievably ruined ; and that it was always in my power to com- 


municate the Pak and rectify the mistake. 

“‘T left you to ponder on this scene. My mind was fall of 
rapid and incongruous ideas, Compunction, self-upbraiding, 
hopelessness, satisfaction at the view of those effects likely to 
flow from my new scheme, misgivings as to the beneficial re- 


sult of this scheme, took possession of my mind, and seemed | 
to struggle for the mastery. 


“Thad gone too far torecede. I had painted myself to 


you as an assassin and ravisher, withheld from guilt only by ~ 


a voice from Heaven. I had thus reverted into the path of 
error, and now, having gone thus far, my progress seemed to- 
be irrevocable. I said to myself, ‘I must leave these, pre- 
cincts forever. My acts have blasted my fame in the eyes of 


the Wielands. For the sake of creating a mysterious dread — 


a ys 


944 WIELAND; OR, 


I have made myself a villain. I may complete this myster- 
ious plan by some new imposture, but I cannot aggravate my 
supposed guilt.” : 

“My resolution was formed, and I was swiftly ruminating 
on the means for executing it when Pleyel appeared in sight, 
This incident decided my conduct. It was plain that Pleyel 
was a devoted lover, but he was at the same time aman of 
cold resolves and exquisite sagacity. To deceive him would 
be the sweetest triumph I had ever enjoyed. The deception 
would be momentary, but it would likewise be complete. 
That his delusion would so soon be rectified was a recommen- 
dation to my scheme; for I esteemed him too much to 
desire to entail upon him lasting agonies. 

“TJ had no time to reflect further, for he proceeded, with a 
quick step, toward the house. I was hurried onward involun- 
tarily and by a mechanical impulse. I followed him as he passed 
the recess in the bank, and, shrouding myself in that spot, I 
counterfeited sounds which I knew would arrest his steps. 

“He stopped, turned, listened, approached, and overheard 
a dialogue whose purpose was to vanquish his belief in a point 
where his belief was most difficult to vanquish. I exerted all 
my powers to imitate your voice, your general sentiments, 
and your language. Being master, by means of your journal, 
of your personal history and most secret thoughts, my efforts 
were the more successful. When I review the tenor of this 
dialogue I cannot believe but that Pleyel was deluded. 
When I think of your character, and of the inferences which 
this dialogue was intended to suggest, it seems incredible 
that this delusion should be produced. | 

“YT spared not myself. I called myself murderer, thief, 
guilty of innumerable perjuries and misdeeds. That you had 
debased yourself to the level of such a one, no evidence, me- 
thought, would suffice to convince him who knew you so 
thoroughly as Pleyel ; and yet the imposture amounted to 
proof which the most jealous scrutiny would find to be unex- 
ceptionable. 


THR TRANSFORMATION. 945 


“He left his station precipitately and resumed his way to 
the house. I saw that the detection of his error would be 
instantaneous, since not having gone to bed, an immediate 
interview would take place between you. At first this cireum- 
stance was considered with regret ; but as time opened my 
eyes to the possible consequences of this scene I regarded it 
with pleasure. | 

“Tn a short time the infatuation which had led me thus far 
began to subside. The remembrance of former reasonines 
and transactions was renewed. How often I had repented 
this kind of exertion, how many evils were produced by it 
~ which Ihad not foreseen, what occasions for the bitterest re- 
morse it had administered, now passed through my mind. 
The black catalogue of stratagems was now increased. I had in- 
spired you with the most vehement terrors, I had filled your 
mind with faith in shadows and confidence in dreams, I had 
depraved the imagination of Pleyel, I had exhibited you to 
his understanding as devoted to brutal gratifications and con- 
summate in hypocrisy. The evidence which accompanied this 
‘delusion would be irresistible to one whose passion had per- 
verted his judgment, whose jealousy with regard to me had 
already been excited, and who, therefore, would not fail to 
overrate the force of this evidence. What fatal act of despair 
or of vengeance might not this error produce ? : 

«With regard to myself, I had acted with a frenzy that 
surpassed belief. I had warred against my peace and my 
fame, 1 had banished myself from the fellowship of vigorous é 
and pure minds, I was self-expelled from a scene which the 
munifieence of nature had adorned with unrivalled beauties, 
and from haunts in which all the muses and humanities had 
taken refuge. : 

“T was thus torn by conflicting fears and tumultuous re- 
erets. The night passed away in this state of confusion, and 
the next morning, in the-gazette left at my obscure lodging, ~ 
I read a description and an offer of reward for the apprehen-— 
sion of my person. I was said to have escaped from an Irish 


WIRLAND ; OR. 0 be 


prison, m which I was confined as an offender convicted of 
enormous and complicated crimes. RAE ae 

“This was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood and— 
stratagem, had procured my condemnation. — I was, indeed, a 
“prisoner, but escaped, by the exertion of my powers, the fate ; 

to which I was doomed but which I did not deserve. I had | 
hoped that the malice of my foe was exhausted; but I now 
perceived that my precautions had been wise, for that the 
intervention of an ocean was insufficient for my security. 

“Let me not dwell on the sensations which this discovery 
produced. Ineed not tell by what steps I was induced to 
scek an interview with you, for the purpose of disclosing the 
truth, and repairing, as far as possible, the effects of my mis- 
conduct. It was unavoidable that this gazette would fall 
into your hands, and that it would tend to confirm every 
erroneous impression. 

“Having gained this interview, I purposed to seek some 
retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your inquiry and-to 

the malice of my foe, where I might henceforth employ my- 
self in composing a faithful narrative of my actions. I de- 
signed it as my vindication from the aspersions that had 
rested on my character, and as a lesson to mankind on the © 
_ evils of credulity on. the one hand and of imposture on the 
other. 

“I wrote you a billet which was left at the house of your 
friend and which I knew would, by. some means, speedily — 
come to your hands. I entertairied a faint hope that my in- 
vitation would be complied with. I knew not what use you 
would make of the opportunity which this proposal afforded. 
you of procuring the seizure of my person; but this fate I 
was determined to avoid, and I had no doubt but due circum-- 
Spection, and the exereise of the faculty which I possessed, 
would enable me to avoid it, 


| 


“T lurked through the day in the neighborhood. of Mettin- i 


gen ; I approached your habitation at the appointed hour, I 
entered it in silence by a trap-door which led into the cellar. 


a 


fs” tas 


ae Cah od te eh 
PES See 
Teint oe a = ara 


Sel 3 


‘THE TRANSFORMATION. 47 


This had formerly been bolted on the inside, but Judith had, 
at an early period in our intercourse, removed thisimpediment. 
T ascended to the first floor, but met with no one, nor any- 
thing that indicated the presence of a human being, | 

“T crept softly upstairs, and at length perceived your 
chamber door to be opened and a light to be within. It was 
of moment to discover by whom this light was accompanied. 

I was sensible of the inconveniences to which my being dis- 
covered at your chamber door by any one within would sub- 
ject me ; I therefore called out in my own voice, but so modi- 
fied that it should appear to ascend from the court below, 

' *Who isin the chamber? Is it Miss Wieland ?’ 

““No answer was returned to this summons. I listened, | 
but no motion could be heard, After a pause I repeated my 
eall, but no less ineffectually. 

““T now approached nearer to the door, and adventured to 
lookin. A light stood on the table, but nothing human was 

_ discernible. I entered cautiously, but all was solitude and 
stillness. | . 

“TI knew not what to conclude. If the house were in- 
habited, my call would have been noticed; yet some sus- 
picion insinuated ‘itself that silence was studiously kept by 
persons who intended to surprise me. My approach had been 
wary, and the silence that ensued my ¢all had likewise pre- 
ceded it.; a circumstance that tended to dissipate my fears. _ 

“At length it occurred to me that Judith might possibly 
be in her own room. I turned my steps thither, but she was — 
not to be found. I passed into other rooms and was soon 
convinced that the house was totally deserted. I returned to 
your chamber, agitated by vain surmises and opposite con- 
jectures. The appointed hour had passed and I dismissed 
the bope of an interview. 

“In this state of things I determined to leave a few lines~ | 
on your toilet, and prosecute my journey to the mountains. 

' __— Seareely had I taken the pen when I laid it aside, uncertain” 
| in what manner to address you. Ivrose from the table and 


HV ieee WIELAND. 


walked across the floor. A glance thrown upon the bed ae- 
quainted me with a spectacle to which my conceptions of hor- 
ror had not yet reached. : 

“In the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the signal of 
your presence in the court below recalled me to myself. The 
deed was newly done; I only was in the house; what had 
lately happened justified any suspicions, however enormous. 
{t was plain that this catastrophe was unknown to you. I 
thought upon the wild commotion which the discovery would 
awaken in your breast. I found the confusion of my own 
thoughts unconquerable, and perceived that the end for which 
I sought an interview was not now to be accomplished. 

“In this state of things it was likewise expedient to con- 
ceal my being within. I put out the light and hurried down 
the stairs. To my unspeakable surprise, notwithstanding 
every motive to fear, you lighted a candle and proceeded to 
your chamber. 

“TJ retired to that room below from which a door leads 
into the cellar. This door concealed me from your view as 
you passed. I thought upon the spectacle which was about 
to present itself. In an exigence so abrupt and so little fore- 
seen, I was again subjected to the empire of mechanical and 
habitual impulses. JI dreaded the effects which this shoek- 
ing exhibition, bursting on your unprepared senses, might 
produce. 

“Thus actuated, I stepped swiftly to the door, and, thrust- 
ing my head forward, once more pronounced the mysterious 
interdiction. At that moment, by some untoward fate, your 
eyes were cast back, and you saw me in the very act of 
utterance. I fled through the darksome avenue at which 
I entered, covered with the shame of this detection. - 

‘With diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable emo- 
tions, I pursued my intended journey. I have a brother 


whose farm is situated in the bosom of a fertile desert, near 


the sources of the Lehigh, and thither I now repaired. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


«Derpry did I ruminate on the occurrences that had just 
passed. Nothing excited my wonder so much as the means 
by which you discovered my being in the closet. This dis- 
covery appeared to be made at the moment when you at- 
tempted to open it. How could you have otherwise re- 
mained so long in the chamber apparently fearless and tran- 
quil? And yet, having made this discovery, how could you 
persist in dragging me forth—persist in defiance of an 
interdiction so emphatical and solemn ? 

“But your sister’s death was an event detestable and omi- 
nous. She had been the victim of the most dreadful species 
of assassination. How, in a state like yours, the murderous 
intention could be generated was wholly inconceivable. 

“T did not relinquish my design of confessing to you the 
part which I had sustained in your family ; but I was willing 
to defer it till the task which I had set myself was finished. 
That being done, I resumed the resolution. The motives to 
incite me to this continually acquired force. The more I re- 
volved the events happening at Mettingen the more insup- 
portable and ominous my terrors became. My waking hours 
and my sleep were vexed by dismal presages and friehtful 
intimations. 

‘“‘Gatharine was dead by violence. Surely my malignant 
stars had not made me the cause of her death; yet had I not 
rashly set in motion a machine over whose progress I had no 
control, and which experience had shown me was infinite in~ 
power? Every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of 
which this was the source, and a seasonable disclosure of the 
truth might prevent numberless ills. 


O50 WIELAND; OR, — 2 oe age 


“Fraught with this conception, I have turned my steps 
hither. I find your brother's house -desolate, the furniture 
removed, and the walls stained with damps.. Your own is in 
the same situation. Your chamber is dismantled and dark, 
and you exhibit an-image of incurable grief and of rapid 
decay. : 

“Thave uttered the truth. This is the extent of my of- 
fences. You tell me a horrid tale of Wieland being led to the 
destruction of his wife and children by some mysterious 
agent. You charge me with the guilt of this agency; but I 
repeat that the amount of my guilt has been truly stated. — 
The perpetrator of Catharine’s earaok was unknown to me tiil 
now, nay, it is still unknown to me.’ 

At that moment, the closing of a door in the kitchen was 
distinctly heard by us. Carwin started and paused. ‘‘There 
is some one coming. I must not be found here by my 
enemies, and need not, since my purpose is answered.” 

Thad drunk in, with the most vehement attention, every 
word that he had uttered. I had no breath to interrupt this 
tale by interrogations or comments. The power that-hespoke - 
of was hitherto unknown to me ; its existence was incredible ; 
it was susceptible of no direct proof. 

He owns that his were the voice and face which I heard 
and saw. He attempts to give a human explanation of these 
phantasms ; but it is enough that he owns himself to be the 
agent. His tale is a lie and his nature devilish. As he de- 
ceived me he likewise deceived my brother, and now do I be. 
hold the author of all our calamities! ee 

Such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to 
think. I should have bade him begone if the silence had not ~~ 
been interrupted ; but now I feared no more for myself, and 
the milkiness of my nature was curdled into hatred and ran- ~*~ 
cor. Some one was near, and this enemy of God and man 
might possibly be brought to justice. I reflected not that the 
preternatural power which he had hitherto exerted would % 
avail to rescue him from any toils in which his feet might be — 


’ 


7 


THE TRANSFORMATION. Seis 


entangled. Meanwhile, looks, and not words, of menace and 


abhorrence were all that I could bestow. 

He did not depart. He seemed dubious whether by pass- 
ing out of the house or by remaining somewhat longer where 
he was he should most endanger his safety. His confusion 
increased when steps of one. barefoot were heard upon the 
stairs. He threw anxious glances sometimes at the closet, 
sometimes at the window, and sometimes at the chamber 
door, yet he was detained by some inexplicable fascination. 
He stood as if rooted to the spot. 

_ As to me, my soul was bursting with detestation and 
reyenke. Thad no room for surmises and fears respecting 


him that approached. It was doubtless a human being, and 


would befriend me so far as to aid me in arresting this of- 
fender. 

The stranger quickly entered the room. My eyes and the 
eyes of Carwin were at the same moment darted upon him. 
A second glance was not needed to inform us who he was. 
His locks were tangled, and fell confusedly over his forehead 
and ears. His shirt was of coarse stuff and open at the neck 
and -breast. His coat was once of bright and fine texture, 
but now torn and tarnished with dust. His feet, his legs, and 
his arms were bare. His features were the seat of a wild and 
tranquil solemnity, but his eyes bespoke inquietude and curi- 
osity. 

He advanced with a firm step and looking as in search of 
some one. He saw me and stopped. He bent his sight on 
the floor, and, clenching his hands, appeared suddenly ab- 
sorbed in meditation. Such were the figure and deportment 
of Wieland! Such, in his fallen state, were the aspect and 
ouise of my brother! 

Carwin did not fail to recognize the visitant. Care for his 
own safety was apparently swallowed up in the amazement- 
which this spectacle produced. His station was conspicuous, 
and he could not have escaped the roving glances of Wieland, 


yet the latter seemed totally unconscious of his presence. 


952 | ‘WIELAND; OR, - 


Grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the only 
sentiment of which I was conscious. A fearful stillness en- 
sued. At length Wieland, lifting his hands, which were locked 
in each other, to his breast, exclaimed, “Father! I thank 
thee. This is Thy guidance. Hither Thou hast led me that I 
might perform Thy will. Yet let me not err; let me hear 
again Thy messenger!” _ 

He stood for a minute as if listening ; but, recovering from 
his attitude, he continued, ‘It is fiat needed. Dastardly 
wretch! thus eternally questioning the behests of thy Maker! 
weak in resolution, wayward in faith!” — 

He advanced to me, and, after another pause, resumed : 
‘Poor girl! a dismal fate has set its mark upon thee. Thy 
life is demanded asa sacrifice. Prepare thee to die. Make 
not my office difficult by fruitless opposition. Thy prayers 
might subdue stones, but none but He who enjoined my 
purpose can shake it.” 

These words were a sufficient explication of the scene. 
The nature of his frenzy, as described by my uncle, was re- 
membered. I, who had sought death, was now thrilled with 
horror because it was near. Death in this form, death from 
the hand of a brother, was thought upon with indescribable 
repugnance. 

In a state thus verging upon madness, my eye elanced — 
upon Carwin. His astonishment appeared to have struck — 
him motionless and dumb. My life was in danger, and my 
brother’s hand was about to be imbrued with my blood. I 
firmly believed that Carwin’s was the instigation. I conld 
rescue myself from this abhorred fate, I could dissipate this 
tremendous illusion, I could save my brother from the per- 
petration of new horrors, by pointing out the devil who se- 
duced him. To hesitate a moment was to perish. These 
thoughts gave strength to my limbs and energy to te es 
cents. I started on my feet: 

“Oh, brother! spare me! spare thyself! ‘There is thy be- 
trayer. He counterfeited the voice and face of an angel for 


PP pa 


hee oes 


- ‘HB TRANSFORMATION. ———«2.58 


the purpose of destroying thee and me. He has this moment 
confessed it. He is able to speak where he is not. He is 
leagued with hell but will not avow it, yet he confesses that 
the agency was his.” 

My brother turned slowly his eyes and fixed them upon 
Carwin. Every joint in the frame of the latter trembled. His 
complexion was paler than a ghost’s. His eye dared not meet 
that of Wieland, but wandered with an air of distraction from 
one space to another. 

“Man,” said my brother, in a voice totally unlike that which 
he had used to me, “what art thou? The charge has been 
made. Answerit. Tle visage—the voice—at the bottom of 
these stairs —at the hour of eleven—to whom did they belong? 
To thee?” 

Twice did Carwin attempt to speak, but his words died 
away upon his lips. My brother tesumed, in a tone of greater 
vehemence : 

«Thou falterest. Faltering is ominous. Say yes or no; 
one word will suffice, but beware of falsehood. Was it a 
stratagem of hell to overthrow my family? Wast thou the 
agent ?” 

I now saw that the wrath which had been prepared for me 
was to be heaped upon another. The tale that I heard from 
him, and his present trepidations, were abundant testimonies 
of his euilt. But what if Wieland should be undeceived ? 
What if he shall find his act to have proceeded not from a 
heavenly prompter, but from human treachery? Will not 
his rage mount into whirlwind? Will not he tear limb from 
limb this devoted wretch ? 

Instinctively [ recoiled from this image ; but it gave place 
to another. Carwin may be innocent, but the impetuosity of 
his judge may misconstrue his answers into a confession of 
guilt. Wieland knows not that mysterious voices and appear- 
ances were likewise witnessed by me. Carwin may be igno- 
rant of those which misled my brother. Thus may his answers 
unwarily betray himself to ruin. 


, WIELAND; OR, _ 


Such might be the consequences of my frantic precipita- 
tion, and these it was necessary, if possible, to prevent. I at- 
tempted to speak, but Wieland, turning suddenly upon me, 
commanded silence in a tone furious and terrible. My lips — 
closed and my tongue refused its office. 

“What art thou?” he resumed, addressing himself to Car- 
win. “Answer me. ee form—whose voice—was it ALS 
contrivance? Answer me.” 

The answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely 
articulated. “I meant nothing—I intended no ill—if I 
understand—if I do not mistake you—it is too true—I did 
Bape 1u the entrye ind speak. ‘The contrivance was mine, 
but : 

These words were no sooner uttered, than my brother 
ceased to wear the same aspect. His eyes were downcast ; he 
was motionless ; his respiration became hoarse, like that of a 
man in the agonies of death. Carwin seemed unable to say 
more. He might have easily escaped ; but the thought which 
occupied him related to what was horrid and unintelligible in 
this scene, and not to his own danger. 

Presently the faculties of Wieland, which, for a time, were 
chained up, were seized with restlessness and trembling. 
He broke silence. The stoutest heart would have been ap- 
palled by the tone in which he spoke. He addressed himself 
to Carwin— : 

“Why art theu here? Who detains thee? Go and learn 
better. Iwill meet thee, but it must be at the bar of thy 
Maker. There shall I bear witness against thee.” 

Perceiving that Carwin did not obey, he continued, “Dost 
thou wish me to complete the catalogue by thy death? Thy 
life is a worthless thing. Tempt me no more. Jam but a 
man, and thy presence may awaken a fury which- may spurn 
my control. Begone!” 

Carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his com- 
plexion pallid as death, his knees beating one against another, 
slowly obeyed the mandate and withdrew. © 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A yew words more and I lay aside the pen forever. Yet 
why should I not relinquish it now? All that I have said is 
preparatory to this scene, and my fingers, tremulous and cold 
as my heart, refuse any further exertion. This must not be. 
Let my last energies support me in the finishing of this task. 
Then will I lay down my head in the lap of death. Hushed 
will be all my murmurs in the sleep of the grave. 

Every sentiment has perished in my bosom. Even friend- 
ship is extinct. Your love for me has prompted me to this 
task ; but I would not have complied if it had not been a 
luxury thus to feast upon my woes. I have justly calculated 
upon my remnant of strength. When I lay down the pen 
the taper of life will expire ; my existence will terminate with 
my tale. — | 

Now that I was left alone with Wieland the perils of my 
situation presented themselves to my mind. That this par- 
oxysm should terminate in havoc and rage it was reasonable 
to predict. The first suggestion of my fears had been dis- 
proved by my experience. Carwin had acknowledged his 
offences, and yet had escaped. The vengeance which I had 
harbored had not been admitted by Wieland ; and yet the 
evils which I had endured, compared with those inflicted on 
| my brother, were as nothing. I thirsted for his blood, and 
was tormented with an insatiable appetite for his destruc- 
tion ; but my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him 
in safety. Surely thou wast more than man while Tam sunk ~ 


~ below the beasts. 


- Did I place a right construction on the conduct of Wieland ? 


“i : ; Was | the error that misled oo SO cee rectified ? Were. 


ee <9 ww se ote 


WIELAND; OR, 


views so vivid and faith so strenuous thus liable to fading 
and to change? Was there not reason to doubt the accu- 
racy of my perceptions? With images like these was my 
mind thronged till the deportment of my brother called 
away my attention. 

I saw his lips move and his eyes cast up to heaven. Then 

would he listen and look back, as if in expectation of some 
one’s appearance. Thrice he repeated these gesticulations and 
this inaudible prayer. Hach time the mist of confusion and 
doubt seemed to grow darker and to settle on his under- 
standing. I euessed at the meaning of these tokens. The 
words of Carwin had shaken his belief, and he was employed 
in summoning the messenger who had formerly communed 
with him, to attest the value of those new doubts. In vain 
the summons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but va- 
cancy, and not a sound saluted his ear. 
_ He walked to the bed, gazed with eagerness at the pillow 
which had sustained the head of the breathless Catharine, and 
then returned to the place where I sat. I had no power to 
lift my eyes to his face—I was dubious of his purpose, this 
purpose might aim at my life. 

Alas! nothing but subjection to danger and exposure to 
temptation can show us what we are. By this test was [now 
tried and found to be cowardly and rash. Men can deliber- 
ately untie the thread of life, and of this ] had deemed myseif 
capable. It was now that I stood upon the brink of fate, that 
the knife of the sacrificer was aimed at my heart, I shuddered, 
and betook myself to any means of escape, however monstrous. 


©an I bear to think—can I endure to relate the .outrage 


which my heart meditated? Where were my means of safe- 
ty? Resistanee was vain. Not even the energy of despair 


could set me on a level with that strength which his terrifie _ 


prompter had bestowed upon Wieland. ‘Terror enables us to 


perform incredible feats, but terror was not then the state of 


my mind—where, then, were my hopes of rescue? 
Methinks it is too much. I stand aside, as it were, from 


xy Bi e 


THE TRANSFORMATION. - O57 


myself. Iestimate my own deservings; a hatred, immortal 
and inexorable, is my due. I listen to my own pleas and — 
find them empty and false. Yes, I acknowledge that my 
guilt surpasses that of mankind. I confess that the curses 
ofa world and the frowns of a Deity are inadequate to my 
demerits. Is there a thing in the world worthy of infinite 
abhorrence? ItisI. — 

What shall I say? I was menaced, as I thought, with death, 

~and, to elude this evil my hand was ready to inflict death 
upon the menacer. In visiting my house I had made pro- 
visions against the machinations of Carwin. In a fold of my 
dress an open penknife was concealed. This I now seized and 
drew forth. It lurked out of view, but I now see that my 
state of mind would have rendered the deed inevitable if my 
brother had lifted his hand. This instrument of my preser- 
vation would have been plunged into his heart. 

O insupportable remembrance! hide thee from my view for 
a time ; hide it from me that my heart was black enough to 
meditate the stabbing of a brother! a brother thus supreme 
in misery, thus towering in virtue ! 

He was probably unconscious of my design, but presently 
drew back. This interval was sufficient to restore me to my- 
self. The madness, the iniquity, of that act which I had pur- 
posed rushed upon my apprehension. For a moment I was 
breathless with agony. At the next moment I recovered my 
strength and threw the knife with violence on the floor. 

The sound awoke my brother from his reverie. He gazed 
alternately at me and at the weapon. With a movement 
equally solemn he stooped and took it up. He placed the 
blade in different positions, scrutinizing it accurately, and 
maintaining, at the same time, a profound silence. 

Again he looked at me; but all that vehemence and lofti- 
ness of spirit which had so lately characterized his features 

were flown. Fallen muscles, a forehead contracted into folds, 
eyes dim with unbidden drops, and a ruefulness of aspect 
which no words can describe, were now visible. 


J hry - Ay” Me See et te ae gt Oe ee ee! de, hee Seti Oy a Ge SS Sy SOR ny ear CS eT oy Vr ay ee 9 
"ies 7 a en ee | Mn ee Rar Dae Wee) Ce Pgh lee ae I Sole CREE AN a ae See yt cee TiN ene CONC Lie APN reas seit cae Sat 
ee ee CMR ee Ca Rebs gS eos as TR tye ne eat a Bee nab ey ee eee ed 
Age + ¥ gy Peet wit by re aie ore a binds iS it Stet S “4 tf “ Ake ee i pe Ae eats fh e 4 ste 
res CO ae Tal ead, Pal 4 ; p .) 
oe we, o 


WIELAND; OR, 


His looks touched into energy the same sympathies in me, 
and I poured forth a flood of tears. This passion was quickly 
checked by fear, which had now no longer my own but his 

safety for their object. I watched his deportment in silence. 
At length he spoke : , | 

“Sister,” said he, in an accent mournful and mild, “I have 
acted poorly my part in this world. What thinkest thou? 
Shall I not do better in the next?” 

I could make no answer. The mildness of his tone aston- 
ished and encouraged me. I continued to regard him with 
wistful and anxious looks. 

“J think,” resumed he, “I will try. My wife and my babes 
have gone before. Happy wretches! J have sent you to re- 
pose, and ought not to linger behind.” 

These words had a meaning sufficiently intelligible. I 
looked at the open knife in his hand and shuddered, but 
knew not how to prevent the deed which I dreaded. He 
quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them. Stretch- 
ing toward me his hand, with an air of increasing mildness, 
“Take it,” said he; ‘‘ fear not for thy own sake, nor for mine. 
The cup is gone by, and its transient inebriation is succeeded 
by the soberness of truth. | 

~ “Thou angel whom I was wont to worship! lonrap thou, 
my sister, for thy life? Once it was the scope of my labors 
to destroy thee, but I was prompted to the deed by heaven ; 
such, at least, was my belief. Thinkest thou that thy death 
was sought to gratify malevolence? No. Iam pure from all. 
stain. I believed that my God was my mover ! 

‘Neither thee nor myself have I cause to injure. I have 
done my duty ; and surely there is merit in having sacrificed 
to that all that is dear to the heart of man. If a devil has 
deceived me he came in the habit of an angel. If I erred, it 
was not my judgment that deceived me, but my senses. In 
Thy sight, Being of beings! Iam still pure. — Still will Ilook 
for my reward in Thy justice !” 

Did my ears truly report these sounds $ 2 If I did not err, 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 259 


my brother was restored to just perceptions. He knew him- 
self to have been betrayed to the murder of his wife and clul- 
dren, to have been the victim of infernal artifice ; yet he found 
consolation in the rectitude of his motives. He was not devoid 
of sorrow, for this was written on his countenance ; but his 
soul was tranquil and sublime. | 

Perhaps this was merely a transition of his former madness 
into anew shape. Perhaps he had not yet awakened to the 
memory of the horrors which he had perpetrated. Infatuated 
wretch that I was! ‘To set myself up as a model by which to” 
judge of my heroic brother! My reason taught me that his 
conclusions were right; but, conscious of the impotence of 
reason over my own conduct, conscious of my cowardly rash- 
ness and my criminal despair, I doubted whether any one 
could be steadfast and wise. : 

Such was my weakness, that even in the midst of these 
thoughts my mind glided into abhorrence of Carwin, and I 
uttered, in a low voice, “O Carwin! Carwin ! what hast thou 
to answer for!” | 

My brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclama- 
tion. “Clara!” said he, “be thyself, Equity used to be a 
theme for thy eloquence. Reduce its lessons to practice, and 
be just to that unfortunate man. The instrument has done its 
work, and I am satisfied. 

“I thank Thee, my God, for this last illumination! My 
enemy is Thine also. I deemed him to be man—the man 
with whom I have often communed; but now thy goodness 
has unveiled to me his true nature. As the performer of thy - 
behests he is my friend.” 

My heart began now to misgive me. His mournful aspect 
had gradually yielded place to a serene brow. A new soul 
appeared to actuate his frame, and his eyes to beam with pre- 
ternatural lustre. ‘These symptoms did not abate, and he 
continued : . 

“Qlara, I must not leave thee in doubt. I know not what — 
brought about thy interview with the being whom thou call- 


ot oe TS A a ee oy AR OA Soa er 
Bg har | ea cee ge SRS EA oe 

: Ho oa AHO LUN Ths OP 
‘ 


260 WIELAND; OR, 


est Carwin. For a time I was euilty of thy error, and de- 
duced from his incoherent confessions that I had been made 
the victim of human malice. He left us at my bidding, and 
I put up a prayer that my doubts should be removed. Thy 
eyes were shut up and thy ears sealed to the vision that 
answered my prayer. 

“‘T was indeed deceived. ‘The form thou hast seen was the 
incarnation of a demon. ‘The visage and voice which urged 
me to the sacrifice of my family were his. Now he person- 
ates a human form ; then he was environed with the lustre of 
heaven. , 

“Clara,” he continued, advancing closer to me, “thy death 
must come. This minister is evil, but he from whom his com- 
mission was received is God. Submit then with all thy 
wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be reversed or 
resisted. Mark the clock. Three minutes are allowed to 
thee, in which to call up thy fortitude and prepare thee for 
thy doom.” ‘There he stopped. 

Even now when this scene exists only in memory, when life 
and all its functions have sunk into torpor, my pulse throbs, 
and my hairs uprise ; my brows are knit, as then, and I gaze 
around me in distraction. I was unconquerably averse to 
death ; but death, imminent and full of agony as that which 
was threatened, was nothing. This was not the only or chief 
inspirer of my fears. : 

For him, not for myself, was my soul tormented. I might 
die, and no crime, surpassing the reach of mercy, would pur- 
sue me to the presence of my Judge; but my assassin 
would survive to contemplate his deed, and that assassin was 
Wieland ! 

Wings to bear me beyond his reach I had not. I could not 


vanish with a thought. The door was open, but my mur-_. 


derer was interposed between that and me. Of self-defence 
I was incapable. The frenzy that iately prompted me to 
blood was gone; my state was desperate; my rescue was 
impossible. 


THE TRANSFORMATION. EO ORE 


The weight of these accumulated thoughts could not 
be borne. My sight became confused; my limbs were 
seized with convulsion; I spoke, but my words were half- 
formed : 

“Spare me, my brother! Look down, righteous Judge ; 
snatch me from this fate ; take away this fury from him, or 
turn it elsewhere ! ” 

Such was the agony of my thoughts that I noticed not 
steps entering my apartment. Supplicating eyes were cast 
upward ; but when my prayer was breathed I once more 
wildly gazed at the door. A form met my sight ; I shuddered 
as if the God whom I invoked were present. It was Carwin 
that again intruded, and who stood before me, erect in 
attitude and steadfast in look ! 

The sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts. His 
recent tale was remembered ;: his magical -transitions and 
mysterious energy of voice. Whether he were infernal or 
miraculous or human, there was no power and no need to de- 
cide. Whether the contriver or not of this spell he was 
able to unbind it, and to check the fury of my brother. He 
had ascribed to himself intentions not malignant. Here now - 
was afforded a test of his truth. Let him interpose, as from 
above ; revoke the savage decree which the madness of Wie- 
land has assigned to heaven, and extinguish forever this passion 
for blood ! 

My mind detected ata elance this avenue to safety. The 
recommendations it possessed thronged asit were together, and 
made \but one impression on my intellect. Remoter effects 
and collateral dangers I saw not. Perhaps the pause of an 
instant had sufficed to call them up. The improbability that 
the influence which governed Wieland was external or human ; 
the tendency of this stratagem to sanction so fatal an error or 
substitute a more destructive rage in place of this; the in- 
sufficiency of Carwin’s mere muscular forces to counteract the 
efforts and restrain the fury of Wieland, might, at a second 
elance, have been discovered ; but no second glance was al- 


969 | WIELAND; OR, be mr 


lowed. My first thought hurried me to action, and, fare my 
eyes upon Carwin, I exclaimed: 

“Oh wretch! once more hast thou come? Tet it be to 
abjure thy malice; to counterwork this hellish stratagem ; 
to turn from me and from my brother this aesolnne 
rage ! 

“Testify thy innocence or thy remorse ; exert the powers 
which pertain to thee, whatever they be, to turn aside this 
ruin. Thou art the author of these horrors! What have I 
done to deserve thus to die? How have I merited this un- 
relenting persecution? I adjure thee by that God whose 
voice thou hast dared to counterfeit, to save my life! 

“ Wilt thou then go?—leave me succorless ?” 

Carwin listened to my entreaties unmoved, and turned from 
me. He seemed to hesitate a moment, then glided through 
the door. Rage and despair stifled my utterance. The inter- 
val of respite was past ; the pangs reserved for me by Wieland 
were not to be endured ; my thoughts rushed again into anar- 
chy. Having received the knife from hig hand, I held it 
loosely and wlthout regard; but now it seized again my at- 
tention, and I grasped it with force. 

He seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of Carwin. 
My gesture and the murderous weapon appeared to have 
escaped his notice. His silence was unbroken ; his eye, fixed 
upon the clock for a time, was now withdrawn ; fury kindled 
in every feature ; all that was human in his face gave way to 
an expression supernatural and tremendous. I felt my left 
arm within his grasp. 

Even now I hesitated to strike. I shrunk from hig assault, 
but in vain. | 3 

Here let me desist. Why should I rescue this event from 
oblivion? Why should I paint this detestable conflict ? Why 
not terminate at once this series of horrors ? Hurry to the 
verge of the precipice, and cast myself forever beyond remem- 
brance and beyond hope ? 

Still I live—with this load upon my breast, with this 


. a ae ae rise above the Eiee of mortal passions, i 

- will ee at the scovandly: remorse that bids me seek im- 
~My eek 

oy, 


Fall die. The eulf hatowe me is eeeidbte and near. 
- die, but then only when my tale is at an end, - 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


My right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was still dis- 
engaged. It was lifted to strike. All my strength was ex- 
hausted but what was sufficient to the performance of this 
deed. Already was the energy awakened and the impulse 
given that should bear the fatal steel to his heart, when 
Wieland shrunk back ; his hand was withdrawn. Breathless 
with affright and desperation, I stood, freed from his grasp, 
unassailed, untouched. 

Thus long had the power which controlled the scene for- 
borne to interfere, but now his might was irresistible, and 
Wieland in a moment was disarmed of all his purposes. A 
voice, louder than human organs could produce, shriller than 
language can depict, burst from the ceiling and commanded 
him—to hold ! | 

Trouble and dismay succeeded to the steadfastness that 
had lately been displayed in the looks of Wieland. His eyes 
roved from one quarter to another, with an expression of . 
doubt. He seemed to wait for a further intimation. 

Carwin’s agency was here easily recognized. I had be- 
sought him to interpose in my defence. He had flown. I 
had imagined him deaf to my prayer and resolute to see me 
perish, yet he disappeared merely to devise ae execute the 
means of my relief. 

Why did he not forbear when this end was Socom eam 
Why did his misjudging zeal-and accursed precipitation over-— 
pass that limit? Or meant he thus to crown the scene and 
conduct his inscrutable plots to this consummation ? 

Such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation. 
This moment was pregnant with fate..I had no power 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 265° 


to reason. In the career of my tempestuous thoughts, rent 
into pieces as my mind was by accumulating horrors, Carwin 
was unseen and unsuspected. I partook of Wieland’s credul- 
ity, shook with his amazement, and panted with his awe. 

Silence took place for a moment: so much as allowed the 
attention to recover its post. Then new sounds were uttered 
from above : ) 

“Man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion ; not heayen 
or hell, but thy senses have misled thee to commit these acts, 
Shake off thy frenzy, and ascend into rational andhuman. Be 
lunatic no longer.” | 

My brother opened his lips to speak. His tone was ter- 
rific and faint. He muttered an appeal to heaven. It was 
difficult to comprehend the theme of his inquiries. ‘They 
implied doubt as to the nature of the impulse that hitherto 
had guided him, and questioned whether he had acted in con-. 
sequence of insane perceptions. 

To these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed to 
hover at his shoulder, loudly answered in the affirmative. 
Then uninterrupted silence ensued. 

Fallen from his lofty, and heroic station, now finally restored 
to the perception of truth, weighed to earth by the recollection 
of his own deeds, consoled no longer by a consciousness of 
rectitude for the loss of offspring and wife—a loss for which 
he was indebted to his own misguided hand—Wieland was 
transformed at once into the man of sorrows / 

He reflected not that credit should be as reasonably denied 
to the last as to any former intimation, that one might as 
justly be ascribed to erring or diseased senses as the other. 
He saw not that this discovery in no degree affected the in- 
tegrity of his conduct ; that his motives had lost none of their 
claims to the homage of mankind, that the preference of 
supreme good and the boundless energy of duty were undi-- 
minished in his bosom. 

It is not for me to pursue him through the ghastly changes 
of his countenance. Words he had none. Now he sat upon 


WIELAND; OR <0 3 


the floor, motionless in all his limbs, with his eyes elazed 
and fixed, a monument of woe. : 

Anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity seized = ee 
him. He rose from his place and strode across the floor, ‘ 
tottering and at random. His eyes were without moisture | 
and gleamed with the fire that consumed his vitals. The 
muscles of his face were agitated by convulsions. His lips 
moved but no sound escaped him. 

That nature should Jong sustain this conflict was not to be 
believed. My state was little different from that of my brother. 3 
I entered, as it were, into his thoughts. My heart was visited a 
and rent by his pangs. ‘Oh, that thy frenzy had never 
been cured! that thy madness, with its blissful visions, would) 
return! or, if that must not be, that thy scene would hasten 
to a close !—that Death would cover thee with his oblivion! Ser 

“What can I wish for thee? Thou who hast vied with the “= 
great Preacher of thy faith in sanctity of motives, and in = 
elevation above sensual and selfish! Thou whom thy fate hast aa 
changed into parricide and savage! Can I wish for the con- is 
tinuance of thy being? No.” 


For a time his movements seemed destitute of purpose. If . 
he walked if he turned, if his fingers were entwined with _ ae 
each other, if his hands were pressed against opposite sides 


of his head with a force sufficient to crush it into pieces, it 
was to tear his mind from self-contemplation, to waste his 
thoughts on external objects. 

Speedily this train was broken, A beam appeared to be 
darted into his mind which gave a purpose to his efforts. An es 
avenue to escape presented itself, and now he eagerly gazed _ ‘aa Ge 
about him. When my thoughts became engaged by his de- i 
meanor my fingers were stretched as by a mechanical lorce; aaa 
and the knife, no longer heeded or of use, escaped from my 
_ grasp and fell unperceived on the floor. His eye now lighted — 
upon it ; he seized it with the quickness of thought. gett 

Ishrieked aloud but it was too late. He plunged it to the ee 
hilt in his neck—and his life instantly escaped with the ae 


~ 


Re 7 


eS tee 


THE TRANSFORMATION. : 267 


stream that gushed from the wound. He was stretched at my 


feet, and my hands were sprinkled with his blood as he fell. 

Such was thy last deed, my brother! Fora spectacle like 
this was it my fate to be reserved! Thy eyes were closed— 
thy face ghastly with death—thy arms, and the spot where 
thou liedst, floated in thy life’s blood! These images have 
not for a moment forsaken me. Till I am breathless and 
cold they must continue to hover in my sight. 

Carwin, as I said, had left the room, but he still lingered 
in the house. My voice summoned him to my aid, but I 
_ scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect his 
terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement avowals 
of innocence, the effusions of his pity for me, and his offers of 
assistance. | 

I did not listen—I answered him not—I ceased to upbraid 
or accuse. His guilt was a point to which I was indifferent. 
Ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth 
he was nothing to me. I was incapable of sparing a look or 
a thought from the ruin that was spread at my feet. 

When he left me I was scarcely conscious of any variation 
in the scene. He informed the inhabitants of the hut of what 
had passed, and they flew to the spot. Careless of his own 


safety he hastened to the city to inform my friends of my — 


condition. 

My uncle speedily arrived at the house. The body of Wie- 
land was removed from my presence, and they supposed that 
I would follow it; but no, my home is ascertained; here I 
have taken up my rest and never will I go hence, till, like 
Wieland, Iam borne to my grave. 

Importunity was tried in vain. They threatened to remove 
me by violence—nay, violence was used ; but my soul prizes 


- too dearly this little roof to endure to be bereaved of it. _ 


‘ Force should not prevail when the hoary locks and supplicat- 
ing tears of my uncle were ineffectual. My repugnance to 


move gave birth to ferociousness and frenzy when force was 


employed and they were obliged to consent to my return. 


268 


WIELAND, 


They besought me, they remonstrated, they appealed to 
every duty that connected me with Him that made me and 
with my fellow-men, in vain. While I live I will not 20 
hence. Have I not fulfilled my destiny ? 

Why will ye torment me with your reasonings and re- 
proofs? Can ye restore to me the hope of my better days? 
Can ye give me back Catharine and her babes? Can ye re- 
call to life him who died at my feet? 

I will eat, I will drink, I will lie down and rise up at 
your bidding, all Iask is the choice of my abode. What ig 
there unreasonable in this demand? Shortly will I be at~ 


peace. 


This is the spot which I have chosen in which to 


breathe my last sigh. Deny me not, I beseech you, so slight 


a boon. 


Talk not to me, O my reverend friend, of Carwin. He has 
told thee his tale, and thou exculpatest him from all direct 
concern in the fate of Wieland. ‘This scene of havoc was pro- 
duced by an illusion of the senses. Be it so. I care not from 
what source these disasters have flowed, it suffices that they 
have swallowed up our hopes and our existence. 

What his agency began his agency conducted to a close. 
He intended, by the final effort of his power, to rescue me 
and to banish his illusions from my brother. Such is his | 
tale, concerning the truth of which I care not. Henceforth I ~ 
foster but one wish, I ask only quick deliverance from life | 
and all the ills that attend it, 

Go, wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy 
prayers. Forgive thee? Will that avail thee when thy fate- 


ful hour shall arrive? Be thou acquitted at thy own tri. 


bunal, and thou needest not fear the verdict of others. Ifthy Bas, 
guilt be capable of blacker hues, if hitherto thy conscience be 
without stain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by thus 


violating my retreat. Take thyself away from my sight if 


thou wouldst not behold my death ! 
Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant! And now my 
repose is coming—my work is done! so | tiene 


‘ 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
[Writtenthree years after the foregoing, and dated at Montpellier. ] 


I macinep that I had forever laid aside the pen, and that 
I should take up my abode in this part of the world was of 
al events the least probable. My destiny I believed to be ac- 
complished, and I looked forward to a speedy termination of 
my life with the fullest confidence. 

Surely I had reason to be weary of existence, to be impa- 
tient of every tie which held me from the grave. I experi- 
enced this impatience in its fullest extent. I was not only 
enamored of death, but conceived, from the condition of my 
frame, that to shun it was impossible, even though I had ar- 
dently desired it. Yet here am I, a thousand leagues from my 
native soil, in full possession of life and of health, and not 
destitute of happiness. 

Suchis man. ‘Time will obliterate the deepest impressions. 
Grief the most vehement and hopeless will gradually decay 
and wear itself out. Arguments may be employed in vain, 
every moral prescription may be ineffectually tried, remon- 
strances, however cogent or pathetic, shall have no power over 
the attention, or shall be repelled with disdain; yet, as day 
follows day, the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and 
our fluctuations be finally succeeded by a calm. 

Perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly ow- 
ing to an accident which rendered my continuance in my own 
house impossible. At the conclusion of my long and, as I 
then supposed, my last letter to you, I mentioned my resolu- 
tion to wait for death in the very spot which had been the 
principal scene of my misfortunes, From this resolution 


a » a ee a ee aie ie wre ome ot i ee Ree ve Rhode Oe © Ne ae UA “7 Ma ee eee ee 
ee Jak SPN ea & - . SOE eth Regs Ko WEG A; “ee os? Be Fa pepe beet ay Bh 
armbe ie ara ae ; r ns : hae! ‘ ae . 
: . or ~ : f AE coal AP ey ‘ 

es ‘ Peis 


270 WIELAND; OR, 

my friends exerted themselves with the utmost zeal and per- 
severance to make me depart. They justly imagined that to 
be thus surrounded by memorials of the fate of my family 
would tend to foster my disease. A swift succession of new 
objects and the exclusion of everything calculated to remind 
me of my loss was the only method of cure. 

I refused to listen to their exhortations. Great as my ca- 
lamity was, to be torn from this asylum was regarded by me 
as an aggravation of it.. By a perverse constitution of mind 
he was considered as my greatest enemy who sought to with- 
draw me from a scene which supplied eternal food to my mel- 
ancholy and kept my despair from languishing. 

In relating the history of these disasters I derived a similar 
species of gratification. My uncle earnestly dissuaded me 
from this task ; but his remonstrances were as fruitless on this 
head as they had been on-others. They would have with- 
held from me the implements of writing ; but they quickly 
perceived that to withstand would be more injurious than to 
comply with my wishes. Having finished my tale, it seemed 
as if the scene were closing. <A fever lurked in my veins and 
my strength was gone. Any exertion, however slight, was at- 
tended with difficulty, and at length I refused to rise from my 
bed. 


I now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct in its 


true colors. I reflect upon the sensations and reasonings of that 
period with wonder and humiliation. That I should be insen- 
sible to the claims and tears of my friends ; that I should over- 
look the suggestions of duty, and fly from that post in which 
_ only Icould be instrumental to the benefit of others ; that the 
exercise of the social and beneficent affections, the contem- 
plation of nature, and the acquisition of wisdom, should not 


be seen to be means of happiness still within my reach, is, at 


this time, scarcely credible. 


It is true that Iam now changed ; but I have not the con-— 


solation to reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude 


or to my capacity for instruction. Better thoughts grew up - 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 271 


in my mind imperceptibly. I cannot but congratulate my- — 


self on the change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a fickle- 
ness of temper and a defect of sensibility. 

After my narrative was ended I betook myself to my bed, 
in the full belief that my career in this world was on the 
point of finishing. My unele took up his abode with me and 
performed for me every office of nurse, physician, and friend. 
One night, after some hours of restlessness and pain, I sunk 
into deep sleep. Its tranquillity, however, was of no long 
duration. My fancy became suddenly distempered, and my 
brain was turned into a theatre of uproar and confusion. It 
would not be easy to describe the wild and fantastical incon- 
eruities that pestered me. My uncle, Wieland, Pleyel, and 
Carwin were successively and momently discerned amid the 
storm. Sometimes I was swallowed up by whirlpools, or 
caught up in the air by half-seen and gigantic forms, and 


thrown upon pointed rocks or cast among the billows. Some- | 


times gleams of light were shot into a dark abyss, on the 
verge of which I was standing and enabled me to discover, 
for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous precipices. 
Anon, I was transported to some ridge of Etna and made a 
terrified spectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars of 
smoke. 

However strange it may seem, I was conscious, even during 
my dream, of my real situation. I knew myself to be asleep 
and struggled to break the spell by muscular exertions. 
These did not avail, and I continued to suffer these abortive 
creations till a loud voice at my bedside, and some one shak- 
ing me with violence, put an end to my reverie. My eyes 
were unsealed and I started from my pillow. 

My chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in some 


degree luminous, would permit me to see nothing, and by 


which I was nearly suffocated. The crackling of flames, and 


the deafening clamor of voices without, burst upon my — 


ears. Stunned as I was by this hubbub, scorched with heat, 


and nearly choked by the accumulating vapors—I was unable 


~ 


972 | WIELAND ; OR, 


to think or act for my own preservation—I was incapable, 
indeed, of comprehending my danger. 


I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms, 


borne to the window, and carried down a ladder which had 
been placed there. My uncle stood at the bottom and re- 
ceived me. I was not fully aware of my situation till] found 
myself sheltered in the hut and surrounded by its inhabi- 
tants. 

By neglect of the servant some unextinguished embers 
had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building. The 
barrel had caught fire ; this was communicated to the beams 


of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of the struct- 


ure. It was first discovered by some persons at a distance, 


who hastened to the spot and alarmed my.uncle and the ser-" 


vants. The flames had already made considerable progress, 
-and my condition was overlooked till my escape was rendered 
nearly impossible. 

My- danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, 
one of the spectators ascended to_my chamber, and effected 
my deliverance in the manner before related. 

This incident, disastrous as 1t may at. first seem, had, in 
reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings. I was, in some 
degree, roused from the stupor which had seized my facul- 
ties. The monotonous and gloomy series of my thoughts 
was broken. My habitation was levelled with the ground, 
and I was obliged to seek a new one. A new train of images, 


disconnected with the fate of my family, forced itself on my 


attention ; and a belief insensibly sprung up that tranquillity, 
if not happiness, was stall within my reach. Notwithstanding 
the shocks which my frame had endured, the anguish of my 
thoughts no sooner abated than I recovered my health. 


T now willingly listened to my uncle’s solicitations to be the — ie at 


companion of his voyage. Preparations were easily made, _ 


and, after a tedious passage, We set our feet on the shore of 


the ancient world. The memory of the past did not forsake 
me; but the melancholy which it generated, and the tears 


| REA Oe e TEI 


“THE TRANSFORMATION. — 273 


with which it filled my eyes, were not unprofitable. My curi- 
osity was revived, and I contemplated with ardor the spec- 
tacle of living manners and the monuments of past ages. 

In proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession 
of its ancient tranquillity, the sentiment which I had cherished 
with regard to Pleyel returned. In a short time he was 
united to the Saxon woman, and made his residence in the 
neighborhood of Boston. I was glad that circumstances 
would not permit an interview to take place between us, I 
could not desire their misery ; but I reaped no pleasure from 
reflecting on their happiness. Time, and the exertions of my 
fortitude cured me in some degree of this folly. I continued 
to love him, but my passion was disguised to myself ; I con- 
sidered it merely as a more tender species of friendship and 
cherished it without compunction. 


Through my uncle’s, exertions a meeting was brought about. 


between Carwin and Pleyel, and explanations took place 
- which restored me at once to the good opinion of the latter. 
Though separated so widely, our correspondence was pune- 
tual and frequent, and paved the way for that union which 
can only end with the death of one of us. . 

In my letters to him I made no secret of my former senti- 
ments. This was a theme on which I could talk without 
- painful though not without delicate emotions. That knowl- 
edge which I should never have imparted to a lover I felt 
little seruple to communicate to a friend. 

A year and a half elapsed when Theresa was ote from 
him by death, in the hour in which she gave him the first 
pledge of their mutual affection. This event was borne by 
him with his customary fortitude. It induced him, however, 
to make a change in his plans. He disposed of his property 
in America, and joined my uncle and me, who had terminated 
_ the wanderings of two years at Montpellier, which will hence- 
forth, I believe, be our permanent abode. | 


If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had sub-- 


sisted from our infancy between Pleyel and myself, on the 


274 WIELAND; OR, 


passion that I had contracted, and which was merely 
smothered for a time, and on the esteem which was mutual, 
you will not, perhaps, be surprised that the renovation of our 
intercourse should give birth to that union which at present 
subsists. When the period had elapsed necessary to weaken 
the remembrance of Theresa, to whom he had been bound by 
ties more of honor than of love, he tendered his affections to 
me. J need not add that the tender was eagerly accepted. 

Perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of Car- 
win. He saw, when too late, the danger of imposture. So 
much affected was he by the catastrophe to which he was a 
witness, that he laid aside all regard to his own safety. He 
sought my uncle, and confided to him the tale which he had 
just related to me. He found amore impartial and indulgent 
auditor in Mr. Cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion 
the conduct of Wieland, though he conceived the previous 
and unseen agency of Carwin to have indirectly but power- 
fully predisposed to this deplorable perversion of mind. 

It was easy for Carwin to elude the persecutions of Ludloe. 
It was merely requisite to hide himself in a remote district of 
Pennsylvania. This, when he parted from us, he determined 
to do. He is now probably engaged in the harmless pursuits 
of agriculture, and may come to think, without insupportabie 
remorse, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given 
birth. The innocence and usefulness of his future life may. 
in some degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so thought- 
lessly inflicted. . 


More urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, 


in the course of my former mournful recital, any particulars 


respecting the unfortunate father of Louisa Conway. ‘That. 


man surely was reserved to be a monument of capricious fort- 
une. His Southern journeys being finished, he returned to 
Philadelphia. Before he reached the city he left the highway 
and alighted at my brother’s door. Contrary to his expecta- 
tion, no one came forth to welcome him or hail his approach. 


He attempted to enter the house; but bolted doors, barred — 


THR TRANSFORMATION. PO OS 


windows, and a silence broken only by unanswered calls 
showed him that the mansion was deserted. 

He proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in 
like manner, gloomy and tenantless. His surprise may be 
easily conceived. The rustics who occupied the hut told him 
an imperfect and incredible tale. He hastened to the city, and 
extorted from Mrs. Baynton a full disclosure of late disas- 
ters. 

He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long 
time, from the shocks produced by the disappointment of his 
darling scheme. Our intercourse did not terminate with his 
- departure from America. We have since met with him in 
France, and light has at length been thrown upon the motives 
which oceasioned the disappearance of his wife in the manner 
which I formerly related to you. 

I have dwelt upon the ardor of their conjugal attachment, 
and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced upon her 
purity. This, though the belief was long cherished, recent dis- 
coveries have shown to be questionable. No doubt her integrity 
would have survived to the present moment if an extraordi- 
nary fate had not befallen her. 

Major Stuart had been engaged, while in Germany, ina 
contest of honor with an aide-de-camp of the Marquis of 
Granby. His adversary had propagated a rumor injurious to 
his character. A challenge was sent, a meeting ensued, and 
Stuart wounded and disarmed the calumniator. - The offence 
was atoned for, and his life secured by suitable conces- 
sions. _ : 

Maxwell (that was his name) shortly after, in consequence 
of succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his commission and 
returned to London. His fortune was speedily augmented — 
by an opulent marriage. Interest was his sole inducement 
to this marriage, though the lady had been swayed by~ 
a credulous affection. The true state of his heart was quickly 
discovered, anda separation by mutual consent took place. 
— The lady withdrew to an estate in a distant county, and Max- 


WIELAND; OR, 


well continued to consume his time and fortune in the ives 
pation of the capital. : . 


Maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great 
force of mind and specious accomplishments. He contrived 


to mislead the generous mind of Stuart, and to regain the 
esteem which his misconduct for a time had forfeited. He 
was recommended by her husband to the confidence of Mrs. 


Stuart. Maxwell was stimulated by revenge and by a law- — 


less passion to convert this confidence into a source of 

euilt. | 

The education and capacity of this woman, the worth of 
her husband, the pledge of their alliance which time had 
produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the world, 
all combined to render this attempt hopeless. Maxwell, how- 
ever, was not easily discouraged. The most perfect being, 
he believed, must owe his exemption from vice to the absence 
of temptation. The impulses of love are so subtle, and the 
influence of false reasoning, when enforced by eloquence and 
passion, so unbounded, that no human virtue is secure from 
degeneracy. All arts being tried, every temptation being 
summoned to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its ut- 
most bound, Maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished his pur- 
pose. The lady’s affections were withdrawn from her husband 
and transferred to him. She could not, as yet, be reconciled 
to dishonor. All efforts to induce her to elope with him 
were ineffectual. She permitted herself to love, and to avow 
her love, but at this limit she stopped and was immovy- 
able. 

Hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive 
only of despair. Her rectitude of principle preserved her 
from actual guilt, but could not restore to her her ancient 
affection or save her from. being the prey of remorseful and 
impracticable wishes. Her husband’s absence produced a 
state of suspense. This, however, approached to a period, 
and she received tidings of his intended return. Maxwell, 
being likewise apprised of this event, and having made a last 


i ia is Beech? ere 
phy Seat eR WES EL 5S 


THE TRANSFORMATION. OG 


and unsuccessful effort to conquer her reluctance to accom- 
pany him in a journey to Italy, whither he pretended an in- 
vincible necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures 
which despair might suggest. At the same time she received a 
letter from the wife of Maxwell, unveiling the true character 
of this man, and revealing facts which the artifices of her 
seducer had hitherto concealed from her. Mrs. Maxwell had 
been prompted to this disclosure by a knowledge of her hus- 
band’s practices, with which his own impetuosity had made 
her acquainted. 

This discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples and 
the aneuish of remorse, induced her to abscond. This scheme 
was adopted in haste, but effected with consummate prudence. 
She fled, on the eve of her husband’s arrival, in the disguise 
of a boy, and embarked at Falmouth in a packet bound for 
America. 

The history of her disastrous intercourse with Maxwell, the 
motives inducing her to forsake her country, and the measures 
she had taken to effect her design, were related to Mrs. Max- 
well, in reply to her communication. Between these women 
an ancient intimacy and considerable similitude of character 
subsisted. This disclosure was accompanied with solemn in- 
junctions of secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long 
time, faithfully observed. . 

Mrs. Maxwell’s abode was situated on the banks of the Wey. 
Stuart was her kinsman, their youth had been spent to- 
gether, and Maxwell was in some degree indebted to the man 
whom he had betrayed for his alliance with this unfortunate 
lady. ‘Her esteem for the character of Stuart had never been 
diminished. A meeting between them was occasioned by a 
tour which the latter had undertaken, in the year after his 
return from America, to Wales and the western counties. 
This interview produced pleasure and resret in each. Their 
own transactions naturally became the topics of their eon- - 
versation; and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter 
were related by the guest. 


OR OF Oe BLAND OR 


Mrs. Maxwell’s regard for her friend, as well as for the safety 
of her husband, persuaded her to concealment; but, the 
former being dead, and the latter being out of Ae kingdom, 
she ventured to produce Mrs. Stuart’s letter and to commu- 
nicate her own knowledge of the treachery of Maxwell. She 
had previously extorted from her guest a promise not to pur- 
sue any scheme of vengeance ; but this promise was made 
while ignorant of the full extent of Maxwell’s depravity, and 
his passion refused to adhere to it. 

At this time my uncle and I resided at Avignon. Among 
the English resident there, and with whom we maintained a 
social intercourse, was Maxwell. This man’s talents and ad- 
dress rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and myself. 
He had even tendered me his hand in marriage ; but, this 
being refused, he had sought and obtained permission to con- 
tinue with us the intercourse of friendship. Since a legal 
marriage was impossible, no doubt his views were flagitious, 
Whether he had relinquished these views I was unable to 
judge. 


He was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to | 


which I had likewise been invited, when Stuart abruptly en- 
tered the apartment. He was recognized with genuine s satis- 
faction by me, and with seeming pleasure by Maxwell. In a 
short time some affair of moment being pleaded, which re- 
quired an immediate and exclusive interview, Maxwell and he 
withdrew together. Stuart and my uncle had been known 
to each other in the German army ; and the purpose contem- 
plated by the former in this long and hasty journey was con- 
fided to his old friend. 

A defiance was given and received, and the banks of a rivu- 
let, about a league from the city, was selected as the scene of 
this contest. My uncle, having exerted himself in vain to 


prevent a hostile meeting, consented to attend them asa sur- 


geon. Next morning, at sunrise, was the time chosen. 
I returned early in the evening to my lodgings. Prelimi- 


naries being settled between the combatants, Stuart had con- 


a yee 


THE TRANSFORMATION. 279 


sented to spend the evening with us, and .did het retire till 

late. On the way to his hotel he was exposed to no molesta- 

tion ; but just as he stepped within the portico, a swarthy 

and malignant figure started from behind a column and 
_ plunged a stiletto into his body. 

The author of this treason could not certainly be discovered ; 
but the details communicated by Stuart respecting the his- 
tory of Maxwell naturally pointed him ont as an object of 
suspicion. No one expressed more concern on account of 
this disaster than he; and he pretended an ardent zeal to 
vindicate hig character from the aspersions that were 

east upon it. Thenceforth, however, I denied myself to his 
visits ; and shortly after he disappeared from this scene. 

Few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better title 
to happiness and the tranquil honors of long life than the 
mother and the father of Louisa Conway ; yet they were cut off — 
in the bloom of their days, and their destiny was thus accom- 
plished by the same hand. Maxwell was the instrument of 
their destruction, though the instrument was applied to 
this end in so different a manner. | 

I leave you to moralize on this tale. That virtue should be- 
come the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful con- 
sideration ; but it will not escape your notice that the evils of 
which Carwin and Maxwell were the authors owed their exist- 
ence to the errors of the sufferers. All efforts would have been 
inffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the existence of 
the Stuarts if their own frailty had not seconded these efforts. 
If the lady had crushed her disastrous passion in the bud and _ 
driven the seducer from her presence when the tendency of _ 
his artifices was seen—if Stuart had not admitted the spirit 
of absurd revenge, we should not have had to deplore this ca- 
tastrophe. If Wieland had framed juster notions of moral 
duty and of divine attributes, or if I had been gifted with ~ 
ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued oct 
would have been es and repelled. 


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